For  Love  and  Honor 

A  Sequel  to  Geoffrey's  Victory 


By  MRS.  GEORGIE  SHELDON 


AUTHOR    OF 


"Lost,  a  Petrle,"  "A  True  Aristocrat,"  "Helen's  Vic 
tory,"  "Love's  Conquest,"  "Trixy,"  "Nora,"  Etc. 


A.  L.   BURT    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


POPULAK  BOOKS 

By  MRS.   GEORGIE  SHELDON 

In  Handsome  Cloth  Binding 

Price  per  Volume,  60  Cents 


Audrey's  Recompense 
Brownie's  Triumph 
Churchyard  Betrothal,  The 
Dorothy  Arnold's  Escape 
Dorothy's  Jewels 
Earl  Wayne's  Nobility 
Edrie's  Legacy 
Esther,  the  Fright 
Faithful  Shirley 
False  and  The  True,  The 
For  Love  and  Honor 

Sequel  to  Geoffrey's  Victory 
Forsaken  Bride,  The 
Geoffrey's  Victory 
Girl  in  a  Thousand,  A 
Golden  Key,  1  he 
Grazia's  Mistake 
Heatherford  Fortune,  The 

Sequel  to  The  Magic  Cameo 
He  Loves  Me  For  Myself 
Sequel  to  the  Lily  of  Mordaunt 

Helen's  Victory 
Her  Faith  Rewarded 

Sequel  to  Faithful  Shirley 

Her  Heart's  Victory 

Sequel  to  Max 
Heritage  of  Love,  A 

Sequel  to  The  Golden  Key 

His  Heart's  Queen 
Hoiden's  Conquest,  A 
HowWiUItEnd    ^ 

Sequel  to  Marguerite's  Heritage 

Lily  of  Mordaunt,  The 
Little  Marplot,  The 
Little  Miss  Whirlwind 
Lost,  A  Pearle 
Love's  Conquest 

Sequel  to  Helen's  Victory 
Love  Victorious,  A 
Magic  Cameo,  The 


Marguerite's  Heritage 

Masked  Bridal,  The 

Max,  A  Cradle  Mystery 

Mona 

Mysterious  Wedding  Ring,  A 

Nameless  Dell 

Nora 

Queen  Bess 

Ruby's  Reward 

Shadowed  Happiness,  A 

Sequel  to  Wild  Date 

Sibyl's  Influence 
Stella  Roosevelt 
That  Dowdy 
Thorn  Among  Roses,  A 

Sequel  to  a  Girl  in  a  Thousand 
Threads  Gathered  Up 
Sequel  to  Virgie's  Inheritance 
Thrice  Wedded 
Tina 
Trixy 

True  Aristocrat,  A 
True  Love  Endures 

Sequel  to  Dorothy  Arnold's  Escape 

True  Love's  Reward 

Sequel  to  Mona 

True  to  Herself 

Sequel  to  Witch  Hazel 
Two  Keys 
Virgie's  Inheritance 
Wedded  By  Fate 
Welfleet  Mystery,  The 
Wild  Oats 
Winifred's  Sacrifice 
Witch  Hazel 
With  Heart  so  True 

Sequel  to  His  Heart's  Queen 
Wormn's  Faith,  A 

Sequel  to  Nameless  Dell 


For  Sale  by  all  Booksellers  or  will  be  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price 

A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 
52  Duane   Street New  York 


Copyright  1888 
BY  STREET  &   SMITH 

Under  the  title  of  "Geoffrey's   Victory" 
FOR    LOVE   AND    HONOR 


CHAPTER  I 

A  THRILLING  STORY 

GEOFFREY  started  to  his  feet  as  if  electrified,  as- 
these  unexpected  words  fell  upon  his  ears,  and  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  a  man  of  perhaps  fifty 
years,  his  fact  seamed  and  browned  by  hardships 
and  exposure,  rough  in  appearance,  uncouth  in  dress, 
and  with  an  anxious,  alert  air  about  him,  which  con 
veyed  the  impression  that  he  feared  being  identified 
and  apprehended  for  some  reason  or  other. 

"Who  are  you?"  Geoffrey  sternly  demanded,  for 
he  knew  that  country  was  not  the  safest  place  in  the 
world,  and  it  flashed  upon  his  mind  that  the  man 
might  be  a  robber,  and  had  followed  him  there  with 
some  evil  intent. 

"I'm  all  right.  I've  no  wish  to  harm  ye,  sir,"  was 
the  reassuring  response,  as  the  newcomer  appeared 
to  read  his  thought,  "and  I  guess  it  don't  matter 


4  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

much  who  I  be,  provided  I  can  tell  ye  what  ye  seem 
to  want  to  know  about  this  here  grave." 

"No,"  replied  Geoffrey,  his  suspicions  instantly 
vanishing.  "If  you  can  give  me  the  history  of  the 
poor  lady  who  lies  here,  and  tell  me  where  I  can  find 
the  man  who  brought  her  here,  I'll  pay  you  well,  and 
ask  no  further  questions  about  yourself.  But  how 
came  you  to  follow  me  to  this  place?" 

"I  didn't  foller  ye.  I  was  sittin'  yonder,  behind 
that  clump  of  spurce,  when  ye  hove  in  sight.  I  didn't 
'mean  to  show  up  at  all,  but  when  I  saw  ye  so  eager 
by  this  here  tombstone,  I  was  kind  o'  curious  to 
know  what  yer  game  was,  and  crept  on  ye  unawares. 
But,  I  say,  youngster,"  the  man  added,  suddenly  tak 
ing  a  step  forward,  and  peering  eagerly  into  Geof 
frey's  face,  "who  are  you?" 

The  rough  fellow  had  actually  grown  pale,  and 
his  breath  came  in  gasps  through  his  tightly  locked 
teeth. 

"I  am  an  Eastern  man,"  answered  Geoffrey,  eva 
sively. 

"Is — is  your  name  Geoffrey?"  the  man  demanded, 
in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"Yes." 

"Ha!    Geoffrey  Dale?" 

'"Yes." 

"Great  Christopher !  I — I  thought  so..  Some- 
"/thing  about  yer  sent  a  chill  over  me  the  minute  I  laid 
eyes  on  ye,"  said  the  man,  trembling  and  terribly  agi- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  5 

tated.  "Boy — boy,"  he  continued,  in  a  tone  of  fear, 
"how  on  earth  came  ye  and  me  to  turn,up  together 
here,  of  all  places  in  the  world?" 

Geoffrey  was  amazed  at  his  words. 

Evidently  the  man  knew  something  about  him,  and' 
with  that  knowledge  there  was  connected  some  inci 
dent  that  caused  him  personal  fear. 

Instantly  the  young  man's  mind  reverted  to  the 
condition  in  which  Mr.  Huntress  had  first  found  him 
— a  poor  abandoned  imbecile.  Had  this  rough  crea 
ture  known  of  that,  or  had  anything  to  do  with  it? 

His  next  words  enlightened  him  somewhat. 

"You're  all  right,  too,  in  the  upper  story,  and  ye 
can  talk,"  he  muttered.  "Where  ye  been  all  these 
years?" 

"  'All  these  years!'  How  many  years?"  queried1 
Geoffrey,  with  a  rapidly  beating  heart. 

"It's  eight  years  ago,  last  spring,  since  I  set  eyes, 
on  ye,  and  little  thought  I  should  ever  see  you  again  ;s 
never  with  that  look  on  yer  face.  Where  ye  been,, 
I  say?" 

"Eight  years  ago,  last  spring,"  began  Geoffrey,, 
gravely,  while  he  closely  watched  every  expression 
on  his  companion's  countenance,  "I  was  one  day 
wandering,  a  poor,  demented  boy,  in  the  streets  of 
New  York  City.  My  strange  appearance  and  actions, 
attracted  a  mob  of  urchins,  who  began  to  make  sport 
of  me.  They  were  in  the  midst  of  their  cruelty  when 
a  carriage  stopped  near  me,  and  a  beautiful  little 


15  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

girl  beckoned  to  me,  at  the  same  time  opening  the 
<ioor  of  the  carriage.  I  darted  away  from  my  tor 
mentors,  sprang  in  beside  her,  and  the  next  moment 
was  driven  away  in  safety,  much  to  the  rage  of  the 
boys.  The  girl's  father  took  an  interest  in  me,  con- 
.sulted  a  physician,  who  made  an  examination  of  my 
case,  and  reported  that  my  demented  state  had  been 
caused  by  a  heavy  blow  on  the  head  several  years 
before." 

Geoffey  saw  the  man  shudder,  as  he  made  this 
statement,  while  a  low  exclamation  of  pain  or  fear 
escaped  him,  and  a  dim  suspicion  began  to  dawn  on 
-his  mind. 

"It  was  found,"  he  resumed,  still  watching  the 
man,  "that  my  skull  had  been  fractured,  and  that  a 
portion  of  the  bone  was  pressing  on  my  brain,  which 
caused  temporary  paralysis,  and  made  me  an  im 
becile." 

Another  shudder,  more  violent  than  the  other, 
^strengthened  his  suspicion. 

"This  physician  and  another,"  he  went  on,  "be 
lieved  that  an  operation  might  be  performed  which 
would  improve  my  condition,  if  it  did  not  fully  re 
store  me  to  my  right  mind.  Mr.  Huntress,  the  man 
who  had  taken  me  under  his  protection,  authorized 
the  doctors  to  undertake  the  operation.  They  did 
so — it  was  successful,  and  I  was  restored." 

"Heaven    be    praised!"    ejaculated    his    listener, 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  T 

heartily  but  tremulously.     "I  haven't  that  quite  so 
heavy  on  my  conscience  any  longer." 

Geoffrey  started,  and  his  face  brightened. 

He  was  gaining  light,  little  by  little. 

"The  first  words  that  I  uttered  on  coming  to* 
myself,"  he  continued,  "were  something  about  a, 
woman  named — Margery " 

At  the  sound  of  that  name,  the  man  before  him 
bounded  from  his  feet  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

"Margery!"  he  repeated,  in  an  agonized  voice, 
his  face  twitching,  his  hands  clenching  themselves 
convulsively,  while  his  eyes  rolled  in  every  direction, 
a  look  of  wildest  fear  in  them.  "Do  you  remember 
Margery?" 

He  leaned  breathlessly  toward  the  young  man-,,, 
while  he  awaited  his  answer  with  trembling  eager 
ness. 

"I  remember  only  this — and  it  is  only  a  confused 
remembrance,  too,"  Geoffrey  replied,  "that  some 
one  by  that  name  was  kind  and  good  to  me — that 
she  was  called  Margery,  and  I  loved  her.  I  have  a 
dim  recollection  that  something  happened  to  her — 
that  she  was  hurt  or  struck " 

On  hearing  this,  the  man  stretched  out  his  handL 
with  a  quick,  appealing  gesture. 

"Don't — don't,"  he  pleaded,  hoarsely.  "Do — do^ 
you  remember  anything — any  one  else?" 

"Yes,  I  recollect  that  there  was  a  man  named" 
Jack" — another  violent  start  confirmed  Geoffrey's 


8  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

suspicions — "who  was  not  always  good  to  me,  and 
whom  I  feared,  and — you  are  Jack!" 

This  was  something  of  a  shot  at  random,  but  it 
told  instantly. 

The  man  sank  to  the  ground,  trembling  and  un 
nerved,  his  face  blanched  with  fear,  while  great 
beads  of  perspiration  started  out  upon  his  forehead. 

"Good  heaven!  I  am  lost!  Have  I  come  back 
after  all  these  years,  just  to  get  caught  like  a  rat  in 
a  trap?"  he  cried,  brokenly.  "But,"  he  went  on, 
crouching  lower  among  the  tall  grass  and  weeds,  "I 
never  meant  ye  any  harm,  Master  Geoffrey.  It  was 
the  drink  that  did  it;  it  crazed  my  brain,  and  I  never 
really  knew  I  done  ye  such  injury,  or  that  I'd  killed 
the  girl  I  loved,  till  hours  after  'twas  all  over." 

Geoffrey  grew  pale  now,  at  this  revelation. 

It  was  far  more  than  he  dreamed  of  extorting 
when  he  had  charged  the  man  with  his  identity. 

He  was  so  excited  that  it  was  with  difficulty  he 
could  compose  himself  sufficiently  to  speak.  But 
after  a  moment  or  two  he  said: 

"Well,  Jack,  since  it  is  you,  and  we  have  recog 
nized  each  other,  you  may  as  well  make  a  clean 
breast  of  the  whole  story.  Owing  to  the  kindness 
which  I  had  received,  the  injury  which  you  did  me 
did  not  result  so  seriously  as  it  might  have  done; 
but  poor  Margery!" 

"Boy — boy — ye  will  drive  me  crazy  if  ye  talk 
like  that,"  Jack  cried,  in  a  voice  of  horror.  "I  tell 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  9 

ye,  I  loved  the  girl,  and  I'd  never  have  lifted  my 
hand  agin  her — I'd  have  cut  it  off  first,  though  we 
didn't  always  agree — but  for  the  drink;  and  if  I 
could  only  look  into  her  good  face  once  more,  and 
hear  her  say,  'Jack,  I  forgive  ye !'  I'd  be  willin'  to 
lay  down  in  the  grave  beside  her,  though  heaven 
knows  I've  never  even  seen  the  spot  where  she's 
buried." 

Great  sobs  choked  the  man's  utterance,  while  tears 
rolled  over  his  weather-beaten  cheeks  and  dropped 
upon  the  ground. 

Geoffrey  pitied  him  sincerely,  while  at  the  same 
time  a  feeling  of  horror  crept  over  him  as  he  began 
to  realize  that  the  man  had  been  making  a  confes 
sion  of  murder. 

Had  he  killed  Margery,  and  attempted  his  life 
also?  And  was  that  the  secret  of  his  having  been 
abandoned  in  the  great  city  of  New  York? 

He  was  burning  with  eagerness  to  learn  all  the 
truth. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  pain  you,  Jack,"  he  said,  "but  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  all  there  is  to  tell.  Begin  at  the 
beginning,  here  in  this  peaceful  spot,  where  no  one 
will  come  to  disturb  us,  and  ease  your  conscience  of 
its  burden." 

Jack  looked  up  quickly  as  he  referred  to  that  sa 
cred  inclosure. 

"How  came  ye  to  know  where  to  find  yer  mother's 
grave  ^"  he  asked. 


10  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

Geoffrey's  heart  bounded  within  him  at  this  ques 
tion. 

"Annie"  had  been  his  mother,  then.  It  was  a 
great  thing  to  have  that  point  settled,  and  he  felt 
sure  now  that  the  rest  would  all  be  explained. 

"Never  mind  that  just  now,  Jack,"  he  replied, 
with  what  calmness  he  could  assume;  "when  you 
have  told  me  all  your  story  I  will  answer  any  ques 
tion  you  may  ask." 

"Ye'll  not  give  me  over  to  the  officers,  lad?"  the 
man  pleaded,  pitifully. 

"No,  Jack,  you  need  have  no  fear  of  me;  as  far  as 
I  am  concerned,  you  may  go  free  for  the  rest  of  your 
life;  if  you  have  wronged  any  one  else,  you  v/ill  have 
to  settle  that  with  your  own  conscience.  All  I  ask 
of  you  is  to  tell  me  the  history  of  my  early  life,  and 
what  you  know  regarding  my  father  and  mother." 

"Thank  ye,  Master  Geoffrey,"  returned  Jack, 
humbly.  "I  don't  deserve  that  ye  should  be  so  con 
siderate.  I've  had  to  skulk  and  hide  for  more'n 
twenty  years,  and  though  there  ain't  much  in  the 
world  that  I  care  to  live  for,  yet  a  feller  don't  ex 
actly  like  the  idee  of  bein'  put  out  of  it  afore  his 
time.  I'll  tell  ye  all  I  know  about  yerself  and  your 
folks,  and  welcome." 

"Come  over  to  yonder  log  and  let  us  sit  down," 
Geoffrey  said,  indicating  a  fallen  -tree,  but  he  was 
very  white,  and  felt  weak  and  trembling  as  he  moved 
toward  it. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  11 

At  last  he  believed  the  mystery  of  his  life  was  to 
be  revealed. 

"I  came  here  to  work  in  the  mines  about  a  year 
afore  Captain  Dale — that's  your  dad — bought  his 
claim,"  Jack  began,  after  they  were  seated.  "He 
bought  out  old  Waters  all  of  a  sudden,  and,  about  a 
fortnight  after,  he  brought  the  prettiest  little  woman 
I  ever  set  eyes  on  to  live  in  that  house  yonder " 

"His  wife?"  eagerly  queried  Geoffrey. 

"Of  course,  lad — leastwise  he  said  she  was,  and 
she  was  called  Mrs.  Dale;  and  if  ever  a  man  set  his 
life  by  a  woman,  the  captain  was  that  one.  He 
dressed  her  like  a  doll,  and  wouldn't  let  her  do  a 
thing  except  make  little  fancy  knicknacks,  and  was 
forever  pettin'  and  makin'  of  her  as  if  she  was  a 
child.  Waal,  they  kep'  two  maids — at  least  after 
a  while — one  in  the  kitchen  and  one  to  wait  on  Mrs. 
Dale,  who  was  kind  of  ailin'.  Margery  Brown  was 
the  waitin'  maid,  and  she  and  me  had  been  keepin' 
company  for  quite  a  while,  and  it  was  agreed  be 
tween  us  that  we'd  marry  afore  long  and  try  our 
luck  together  in  California,  for  I'd  scraped  together 
a  snug  little  sum  and  was  tired  of  mines.  But  after 
she  went  to  the  cap's  house  she  began  to  put  me  off — 
she  grew  so  fond  of  his  wife  that  she  wouldn't  hear 
a  word  about  marryin'  and  leavin'  her.  At  the  end 
of  a  year  ye  were  born — a  cute  little  nine-pounder  ye 
was,  too,  and  a  prouder  man  ye  never  see  than  the 
captain  was  after  ye  came.  But  it  didn't  last  long, 


12  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

for  yer  mother  began  to  fail  afore  ye  were  a  month 
old,  and  in  another  week  or  two  she  was  dead. 

"It  just  broke  the  captain's  heart.  He  seemed 
half  crazed,  didn't  pay  any  heed  to  his  business,  and 
finally  said  he  couldn't  stay  here  where  everything 
kept  his  mind  stirred  up  with  the  past.  He  told 
Margery  he  was  goin'  to  break  up,  only  he  didn't 
know  what  he  should  do  with  you,  for  he  hadn't  any 
place  or  any  folks  to  take  you  to. 

"I  thought  my  time  to  speak  up  had  come,  then, 
and  I  told  Margery  she  must  take  me  then  or  never, 
and  if  the  captain  were  willin'  we'd  take  the  baby 
along  with  us,  until  lie  could  do  better  by  it.  This 
pleased  her,  and  she  said  she'd  speak  to  the  master 
about  it.  He  was  glad  enough  to  let  ye  come  with 
us,  for  he  knew  my  girl  loved  ye  and  would  take 
better  care  of  ye  than  any  stranger.  He  said  he'd 
pay  well  for  it  until  ye  were  old  enough  to  go  to 
school,  when  he'd  take  you  to  some  good  one  to 
begin  yer  edication. 

"Well,  Margery  and  I  were  married,  and  went  to 
California  to  live  on  a  small  farm  I'd  leased,  just 
out  of  'Frisco,  which  I  worked  part  of  the  time  and 
let  out  the  rest,  at  odd  jobs,  to  get  a  little  ready 
money.  The  cap  shipped  all  his  fine  furniture  off 
somewhere  to  be  sold,  shut  up  the  house  yonder,  and 
left  for  parts  unknown,  though  for  the  first  two  years 
he  came  every  six  months  to  see  how  his  boy  was  get- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  13 

tin5  on.  After  that  he  didn't  come  so  often,  though 
he  sent  money  regular. 

"Ye  were  the  smartest  little  chap  I  ever  did  see. 
Margery  couldn't  have  loved  ye  any  better  if  ye'd 
been  her  own,  and  she  made  more  on  ye  than  I  rel 
ished,  and  I  got  jealous  sometimes.  We  got  on  finely 
for  three  years,  then  hard  times  came,  the  crops 
didn't  turn  out  good,  odd  jobs  gave  out,  and  I  lay 
idle  for  weeks  at  a  time.  I  wasn't  long  gettin'  into 
bad  company  those  times,  and  I  came  home  wild  with 
drink  sometimes,  and  Margery  would  cry  and  beg 
me  to  mend  my  ways.  But  I  didn't;  and  at  last  she 
got  riled,  and  threatened  to  give  me  the  slip,  which 
only  made  me  wicked  and  sullen. 

"One  night  I  came  home  worse  than  ever — heaven 
forgive  me !  I'd  been  at  the  bottle  all  day  long,  and 
the  very  Old  Boy  had  got  into  me.  I  staggered  into 
the  house  ugly  enough  for  anything.  Margery  had 
the  table  all  laid,  the  kettle  was  steamin'  on  the 
stove,  and  she  was  settin'  with  yerself  in  her  arms — 
ye  were  about  five  then — laughin'  and  playin'  with 
ye  as  happy  as  a  cat  with  one  kitten.  The  sight  an 
gered  me  somehow;  I  couldn't  get  reconciled  that 
we'd  no  tots  of  our  own  and  I  gave  ye  a  cuff  on  the 
ear,  with  an  oath. 

"Margery  sprang  up,  as  mad  as  a  hornet,  and 
shoved  ye  behind  her. 

11  'Let  the  child  alone,  you  sot!'  she  said. 


14  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

'  Til  sot  ye !'  I  yelled,  and  pushed  her  roughly 
into  a  chair  by  the  stove. 

"This  roused  all  yer  bad  blood,  small  as  ye  were. 
Ye  flew  at  me,  peltin'  me  with  yer  little  fists  that 
couldn't  have  hurt  a  flea.  Ye  called  me  'a  bad, 
wicked  man,'  ordered  me  to  'let  Margery  alone,  or 
ye'dtell ' 

"Ye  never  finished  that  sentence,  for  every  word 
had  put  me  in  a  worse  rage,  and  I  grabbed  a  stick 
of  wood  from  the  hearth,  flung  it  at  ye,  and  ye 
dropped  without  a  word,  for  it  hit  ye  square  in  the 
head. 

"My  girl  gave  a  shriek  I'll  never  forget. 

"  'Oh,  ye  drunken  wretch !'  she  cried.  Til  hate 
ye  all  my  life  if  ye've  killed  my  darlinV 

"She  gave  me  a  push  and  sprang  toward  ye,  but 
she  never  reached  ye,  for  I  grabbed  her  by  the  throat 
— frightened  at  what  I'd  already  done,  and  the  heat 
of  the  room  had  made  a  madman  of  me — and 
choked  her  till  she  grew  purple  in  the  face,  and  then 
threw  her  from  me.  She  stumbled,  caught  her  foot 
in  a  rug,  and  fell.  I  laughed  as  she  went  over.  Her 
head  hit  on  the  sharp  corner  of  the  stove  with  a 
sound  I'll  never  forget  till  I  die,  and  then  she,  too, 
lay  still  and  white  on  the  floor  afore  me." 


CHAPTER  II 

JACK'S  STORY  CONTINUED 

WHEN  the  man  had  reached  the  part  of  his  story 
recorded  in  the  preceding  chapter,  he  was  greatly 
agitated  for  several  moments,  as  if  the  memory  of 
that  dreadful  time  was  even  now,  after  the  lapse  of 
more  than  twenty  years,  more  than  he  could  bear, 
while  Geoffrey,  too,  felt  as  if  he  could  hardly  sit 
there  and  listen  to  the  remainder  of  the  fearful  tale. 

"The  horror  of  it  all  sobered  me  a'most  as  quick 
as  if  I'd  been  struck  by  lightning,"  Jack  at  length  re 
sumed,  pulling  himself  together  with  an  effort  "I 
don't  know  how  long  I  stood  there,  lookin'  down  on 
them  two  that  I  believed  I'd  sent  out  o'  world  with 
out  a  moment's  warning.  Then  I  slunk  out  o'  the 
house,  hardly  knowin'  what  I  did,  and  went  and  hid 
myself  in  the  barn.  I  must  have  gone  to  sleep,  or 
fell  into  a  stupor  from  the  liquor  I'd  drank,  for  I 
didn't  know  anything  more  till  the  roosters  set  up. 
such  a  crowing  that  nobody  could  have  slept.  I 
never  could  tell  ye  what  the  horror  of  that  wakin' 
was,  sir,  and  it's  a'most  like  livin'  it  over  again  to 
tell  it,"  groaned  the  man,  with  a  shudder.  "It  was 

15 


16  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

only  about  two  in  the  mornin',  but  the  moon  was 
shinin',  and  it  was  most  as  light  as  day.  I  crept 
out  into  the  yard  and  listened;  there  wasn't  a  sound 
except  those  roosters,  and  every  crow  sounded  like 
a  knell  o'  doom  in  my  ears,  and  made  my  flesh 
creep  with  fear. 

"I  stole  up  to  the  house  and  looked  in  at  the 
kitchen  window.  I  couldn't  help  it — something 
drove  me  to  it,  though  I  shivered  at  every  step. 
There  they  lay,  just  as  they  fell,  with  the  light  still 
burnin',  and  everything  just  as  I'd  left  it.  But  while 
I  stood  there  the  little  shaver  stirred  and  moaned, 
and  my  heart  leaped  straight  into  my  throat,  near 
about  chokin'  me  at  the  sight.  It  gave  me  hope — 
p'raps  after  all  I  hadn't  murdered  'em,  and  they 
might  be  brought  to.  I  rushed  in,  took  the  boy  up, 
and  laid  him  on  the  bed  in  the  bedroom  just  off  the 
kitchen.  He  moaned  all  the  time,  till  I  got  a  wet 
cloth  and  put  it  on  his  head,  when  he  grew  quiet 
and  dropped  off  into  a  stupor  again.  Then  I  went 
to  her — my  girl — Margery — the  woman  I'd  sworn 
to  love  and  take  care  of  till  I  died,  and  who  had 
done  me  nothin'  but  kindness  ever  since  we  first  met. 

UI  lifted  her  up,  but  she  hung  limp  and  lifeless 
over  my  arm.  I  laid  her  head  on  my  breast  and 
begged  her  to  come  back  to  me,  to  call  me  her  Jack 
once  more,  and  say  she'd  forgive  me,  and  I'd  never 
lift  my  hand  ag'in'  her  ag  in,  nor  touch  another  drop 
as  long  as  I  lived.  But  'tw'an't  no  use.  She  lay  there 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  IT 

quiet  and  peaceful  enough,  but  there  was  that  dread 
ful  purple  mark  and  cut  on  her  forehead  where  it 
had  hit  the  stove.  She  wa'n't  cold  or  stiff  as  I 
thought  dead  people  always  were,  but  there  wa'n't 
no  sign  of  life  about  her,  either,  and  I  laid  her  down 
again,  my  heart  a-breakin',  and  feelin'  like  another 
Cain,  only  worse,  for  I'd  killed  a  woman,  and  she  my 
own  wife ! 

"Then  I  began  to  think  what  would  happen  if  I 
was  found  there,  and  I  grew  frightened.  I  couldn't 
make  up  my  mind  to  stay  and  confess  what  I'd  done, 
and  hang  like  a  dog  for  it,  so  I  got  together  a  few 
things  and  all  the  money  that  Margery  had  in  her 
own  little  box,  and  the  boy's  safe,  and  wrappin'  him 
in  a  shawl — for  I  daren't  leave  him  while  there  was 
a  breath  o'  life  in  him  and  a  chance  of  savin'  him — 
I  stole  out  of  the  house,  without  even  darin'  to  give 
my  girl  a  kiss  after  the  ill  I'd  done  her,  and  made 
for  a  station  a  mile  or  more  away. 

"I  had  an  awful  time  of  it,  for  the  boy  moaned 
every  minute  of  the  time;  but  I  told  people  on  the 
cars  that  he'd  had  a  fall  and  I  was  takin'  him  to  a 
doctor.  I  traveled  all  day  in  the  fastest  trains,  and 
got  to  a  town  just  about  dusk.  Here  I  called  a  doc 
tor  to  the  boy.  He  doubted  if  he  could  save  him; 
but  he  pulled  through  after  five  weeks  of  terrible 
fever  and  pain,  though  when  he  got  up  again,  lookin' 
more  like  a  spirit  than  like  flesh  and  blood,  he  didn't 
know  me  or  remember  anything  that  had  happened. 


18  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

The  doctor  said  he  was  a  fool,  and  always  would  be 
one." 

It  seemed  very  strange  to  Geoffrey  to  be  sitting 
there  in  his  right  mind  and  listening  to  this  dreadful 
story  about  himself.  It  seemed  almost  like  a  case 
of  dual  existence. 

"As  soon  as  he  was  well  enough,"  Jack  went  on, 
"I  felt  that  we  ought  to  be  gettin'  out  of  that  place; 
it  was  too  near  home  to  be  safe,  and  the  police  were 
liable  to  get  on  my  track  any  day.  So  I  began  my 
roamin'.  First  we  went  to  Texas,  where  I  got  work 
on  a  cattle  and  sheep  ranch.  After  a  time  I  scraped 
together  a  little  money,  and  started  out  to  raise  sheep 
for  myself.  It  wa'n't  easy  to  be  with  any  one,  lest 
somebody  should  come  along  who  had  heard  about 
what  I'd  done,  and  I  might  get  snapped  up.  The 
boy  and  me  lived  in  a  cabin  by  ourselves,  away  from 
everybody  else,  but  I  never  let  him  out  of  my  sight, 
and  I  grew  that  fond  of  him  I  would  have  died 
rather  than  let  harm  come  to  him,  and  I'd  vowed  I'd 
do  the  best  I  could  by  him  as  long  as  I  lived,  and  get 
together  something  handsome  to  leave  him,  to  make 
up  as  far  as  I  could  for  the  deadly  wrong  I'd  done 
him.  As  soon  as  I  could  get  enough  together,  I 
meant  to  take  him  to  some  place  where  they  care 
for  them  that  have  lost  their  mind. 

"My  sheep  turned  out  wonderful;  in  five  years 
money  began  to  come  in  right  fast,  and  I  might  have 
kep'  on  an'  been  a  rich  man  by  this  time,  if  it  hadn't 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  19 

been  that  a  man  I  knew  came  down  that  way  about 
that  time.  I  saw  him  first  at  the  village,  where  I 
went  to  lay  in  a  stock  of  provisions.  He  didn't  see 
me,  but  I  heard  him  say  he  was  goin'  to  buy  out  a 
cattle  ranch  ten  miles  away,  and  that  was  enough  to 
give  me  a  scare  and  unsettle  me.  I  feared  I'd  be 
recognized  and  seized  as  the  murderer  of  my  girl, 
and  though  life  wa'n't  much  to  me  with  the  heavy 
conscience  and  the  grief  I  had  to  carry  around  with 
me  all  the  time,  yet,  for  the  boy's  sake,  I  was  bound 
to  stick  to  it  as  long  as  I  could — there  was  nobody 
else  to  take  care  of  him,  and  I  knew  he'd  fare  hard 
without  me. 

"The  man  who  owned  the  ranch  next  to  mine  had 
offered  to  buy  me  out  the  year  before,  so  I  went  to 
him  and  told  him  I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  go  North 
and  see  if  the  doctors  couldn't  do  something  for  the 
boy,  and  if  he'd  take  everything  off  my  hands  I'd  sell 
out  cheap. 

"He  took  me  up  quick  as  a  wink,  and  in  less  than 
a  week  the  money  was  in  my  pocket  and  the  boy  and 
me  were  on  our  way  to  New  York.  I  bought  a  small 
farm  just  across  the  river  in  New  Jersey.  There  was 
a  good  house  and  barn  on  it,  and  I  stocked  it  well, 
hired  a  good  strong  woman  to  do  the  inside  work 
and  a  man  to  help  me  outside,  and  then  settled  down 
to  a  quiet  life;  for  I  didn't  believe  anybody  would 
think  of  lookin'  for  me  there. 

"I  took  the  name  of  'John  Landers,'  and  tried  to 


20  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

make  the  boy  call  himself  'George  Landers';  but  he 
didn't  know  enough  to  learn  it,  and  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  bow  to  talk  at  all;  so  I  hadn't  much  to 
fear  from  bis  lettin'  anything  out.  We  lived  here 
for  almost  five  years  more,  and  I  got  ahead  a  little 
every  season.  But.  sir,  the  horror  of  that  dreadful 
deed  never  left  me  for  a  minute.  My  Margery's 
dead  face  was  always  before  me.  and  my  heart  heavy 
with  its  load  of  guilt  and  loneliness.  If  ever  a  man 
paid  for  an  evil  deed  in  torment,  I  paid  for  mine  a 
hundred  rimes  ever. 

"But  the  worst  of  my  troubles  was  yet  to  come. 
The  world's  a  small  place  to  hide  in  when  a  man  has 
committed  a  crime.  I  went  to  town  one  day  on 
business,  and  stepped  into  the  post-office — which  was 
in  the  same  buildin'  with  the  railway  station — to 
send  a  letter  for  the  woman  at  home,  when  I  heard 
two  men  talking  in  a  low  tone  of  voice,  and  one  of 
diem  spoke  me  name  of  Jack  Heniy. 

"My  blood  ran  cold  in  a  minute.  My  back  was  to 
them,  for  I  was  payin'  for  the  postage  on  the  letter, 
and  tbey  hadn't  seemed  to  notice  me.  I  didn't  hurry, 
frightened  as  I  felt,  but  took  my  own  time  and  lis 
tened. 

"It  was  me  they  were  after,  sure  enough;  they 
had  tracked  me  all  the  way  from  Texas  to  that  place, 
bat,  somehow,  couldn't  get  any  farther.  Nobody 
had  heard  of  a  man  named  Jack  Henly,  and  no  one 
answered  to  their  description.  It  was  no  wonder, 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  21 

for  I  was  greatly  changed,  looking  like  as  old  mza, 
f:r  my  grit:   r.=.i  ~:i::tr.ti  my  hair    — rir-kiti  rr.y 

face,  and  bent  my  fomL  I  walked  straignr  by  them 
on  goin'  out  of  the  onice,  but  they  never  suspected 
me.  I'd  got  another  scare,  though,  that  I  couldn't 
get  over,  and  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd  quit  the 
country.  So  I  sold  on  my  stock,  drew  what  luoucj 
I'd  laid  by  in  the  bank — my  farm  I  couldn't  sell  at 
suzh  short  nonce — shut  up  my  house,  and.  tak'n'  the 
boy.  went  to  New  York,  intendin*  to  take  passage 
in  a  vessel  goin*  to  Australia,  where  I  meant  to  go  to 
sheep  raisin*  again,  since  I  r.ii  i:  r.t  : :  ~  :..  .-.'!-. 
while  I  thought  I  needn't  fear  any  man  in  tnat  conn- 
try.  I  took  passage,  and  bought  a  comfortable  outfit 
13-  both  of  us,  but  the  vessel  wa'n't  to  sail  for  a 
week,  so  I  kep"  very  quiet  in  a  room  I'd  Href  en  a 

bv-strect,   feann    tncse  men  migjii  i :  -   . : : 

menp. 

Z_:  I  Ie:  :.  :  :  :^:T  rut.  ::r  he  pined  in  :  ; 
house,  while  I  sat  by  a  window  to  watch  that  he 
did  not  get  out  of  sight.  Waal,  one  day  I  must  have 
fallen  asleep,  for  I  woke  with  a  start,  and  l«*d™* 
out.  couldn't  see  hide  nor  hair  of  the  boy.  I  went 
to  the  door,  but  he  wasn't  nowhere  in  sight.  I 
started  out  to  find  him.  never  triinkin'  •: :  i.i~r;r  11  en. 
I  walked  for  hours,  askin"  people  about  h;m7  bet 
nobody  could  tell  me  anything  of  hrn. 

" Three  dars  I  kep"  this  up.  until  I  nigh  abc«ut  went 


22  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

crazy,  and  wore  myself  out  with  loss  of  sleep,  trav* 
elin'  about,  and  with  my  grief  for  the  little  fellow. 

"On  the  last  day  before  we  were  to  sail,  while  I 
was  rovin'  about  the  streets  in  search  of  him,  I  ran 
against  those  two  men  again — the  ones  who  were 
lookin'  for  me.  I  knew  by  their  quick,  keen  glances 
at  me  that  they  had  got  a  suspicion  I  might  be  their 
man,  and  I  got  out  of  their  way  in  a  hurry.  I  was 
discouraged  about  findin'  the  boy.  I  didn't  dare  to 
look  for  him  any  more.  I  was  afraid  to  go  to  the 
police  about  him,  lest  they  had  been  notified  to  be 
on  the  lookout,  and  should  snap  me  up;  so,  half 
crazed  with  fear  and  grief,  I  staggered  on  board  the 
vessel  I  was  to  sail  in,  crawled  into  my  berth,  and 
lay  there  till  we  were  well  out  to  sea. 

"Waal,  sir,  my  heart  was  broke.  I  thought  I 
never  could  hold  up  my  head  again,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  turned  over  my  hand  to  have  saved  myself  from 
goin'  to  the  bottom;  for  I  got  to  lovin'  that  poor 
little  chap  with  my  whole  soul,  and  I  didn't  know 
how  to  get  on  without  him. 

"But  we  had  a  good  passage.  I  was  hale  and 
hearty  when  we  landed,  and  seemed  likely  to  live  my 
lonely  life  for  many  a  year.  I  went  into  the  inte 
rior,  bought  a  sheep  ranch,  and  set  myself  to  do  the 
work  of  three  men;  nothin'  else  would  ease  the  pain 
and  worry  that  was  eatin'  my  heart  out. 

"Waal,  sir,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  I've  been 
on  that  sheep  ranch  ever  since,  until  about  six  months 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  23 

ago,  when  a  longin'  seized  me  to  come  home  and 
take  a  last  lock  at  my  own  land.  I've  grown  to  be 
a  well-to-do  farmer;  I've  plenty  of  money,  and  no 
one  to  spend  it  on  or  leave  it  to,  unless  I  give  it  to 
you,  Master  Geoffrey,  now  that  I  have  found  you. 
Heaven  me  praised  for  that,  and  that  you've  got 
your  mind  back!  I've  been  to  New  Jersey,  found 
my  place  there  neglected  and  all  out  of  repair,  but 
still  a  thrifty  little  farm  if  'twas  well  taken  care  of. 
I've  been  to  Texas  for  a  look  at  my  old  ranch  there. 
The  man  that  bought  it  got  rich,  sold  out,  and  then 
went  North  to  live  on  his  money.  Then  I  came  on 
here  to  see  the  place  where  I  first  found  my  Mar 
gery,  and  it  was  nigh  this  very  spot — just  there  by 
that  clump  of  spruce,  where  I  was  hid  when  you 
came — that  we  plighted  our  troth.  Ah!  my  girl! 
my  girl!" 

The  poor  man  broke  down  completely  here,  and 
sobbed  like  a  child,  and  Geoffrey's  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  too,  as  he  witnessed  his  emotion  and  realized 
what  he  must  have  suffered  during  the  checkered 
life  that  he  had  led. 

He  had  been  deeply  touched  by  the  faithfulness 
and  devotion  which  he  had  exhibited  in  his  care  of 
him  during  all  those  years  while  he  was  such  a  help 
less  burden,  mentally,  on  his  hands. 

He  saw  that  the  man  was  naturally  honorable  and 
kind-hearted,  and  that  he  would  never  have  been 
guilty  of  the  crime  which  he  had  just  confessed,  but 


24,  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

lor  the  misfortunes  that  led  him  into  evil  company 
and  to  the  use  of  intoxicating  drinks. 

"I'm  a  broken-down  old  man,  sir,"  Jask  said,  after 
struggling  hard  for  self-control,  "or  I  never  should 
blubber  like  this;  but  this  place  brings  back  those 
old  days  when  my  conscience  was  free — when  life 
was  bright  and  full  of  hope  before  me  and  my  girl, 
and  it  seems  more'n  I  can  bear.  It's  wonderful, 
though,  that  I  should  run  across  ye  here !  Oh,  sir, 
I  did  ye  a  woeful  wrong,  in  my  anger  and  jealous  fit, 
when  ye  were  a  child.  I've  no  right  to  expect  it, 
but  'twould  comfort  my  poor  old  heart  more'n  I 
could  tell  ye,  if  I  could  hear  ye  say  ye  don't  lay  it  up 
ag'in'  me." 

Geoffrey  turned  frankly  toward  the  humble  sup 
pliant  beside  him. 

"I  do  not,  Jack,"  he  said,  heartily;  "you  were  the 
victim  of  drink,  and  were  hardly  accountable  for  the 
deeds  of  that  night;  you  condemn  yourself  more  than 
you  really  deserve,  for  if  you  have  told  me  every 
thing  just  as  it  occurred,  your  wife  did  not  die  by 
your  hand — her  death  was  caused  by  an  accident" 

The  man  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"No,  no,"  he  said;  "I  can't  get  it  off  my  conscience 
that  it  was  murder;  for  if  I  hadn't  laid  hands  on  her 
she  might  have  been  living  to-day." 

"Still  it  was  not  willful  or  premeditated,"  Geof 
frey  persisted.  "However,"  he  added,  "I  freely  for- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  25 

give  you  for  your  share  in  my  misfortune,  if  that 
will  be  any  comfort  to  you." 

"Thank  ye,  sir;  thank  ye;  and  if  there  is  a  God, 
I  thank  Him,  too,  that  I've  been  allowed  to  set  eyes 
on  ye  once  more,  and  in  yer  right  mind,  too,"  was 
the  fervent  response. 

"I  reckon,"  he  continued,  after  a  moment  of 
thought,  "it  might  be  called  the  work  of  Providence 
that  I  lost  ye  there  in  New  York,  for  if  ye'd  gone 
with  me  to  Australia,  I  doubt  that  ye'd  ever  been 
cured,  and  I'm  right  sure  ye'd  never  been  the  gentle 
man  that  ye  are.  I'd  thank  ye  to  tell  me  about  the 
good  man  that  befriended  ye." 

"I  will,  Jack,  presently,  but  I  first  want  to  ask  you 
a  few  more  questions  about  the  past." 

"All  right,  sir;  anything  I  can  tell  ye,  ye  shall 
know." 

"Well,  then,  I'd  like  you  to  describe  the  man  who 
was  my  father,"  Geoffrey  said,  gravely. 

Jack  turned  to  look  upon  the  young  man  beside 
him. 

"The  best  description  ye  could  get  of  him'd  be  to 
go  and  look  at  yerself  in  the  glass,"  he  said,  studying 
Geoffrey's  face  and  form,  "for  ye're  as  nigh  like 
him  as  another  man  could  be,  when  I  first  saw  him 
after  he  brought  that  pretty  little  woman  to  live  here. 
He'd  been  off  to  meet  her  somewhere,  and  he'd 
shaved  off  all  his  heavy  beard,  had  his  hair  trimmed 
up  in  the  fashion,  and  wore  a  dandy  suit  o'  clothes." 


26  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"His  name  was  Dale,  you  say?  Are  you  sure  that 
was  his  true  name?"  the  young  man  asked. 

"I  couldn't  take  my  oath  as  to  that,  sir,  but  every 
body  here  knew  him  as  Captain  William  Dale, 
though  I  don't  know  how  he  came  to  be  a  captain. 
She  used  to  call  him  'Will,'  in  a  way  that  made  his 
eyes  shine  enough  to  do  ye  good." 

Geoffrey's  eyes  lighted  at  this. 

It  was  evident  that  Captain  Dale  had  truly  loved 
the  girl  whom  he  had  brought  there,  whether  she 
had  been  his  legal  wife  or  not. 

"Do  you  know  what  her  name  was  before  he  mar 
ried  her?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir;  that  is  one  of  the  things  I  can't  tell  ye; 
even  Margery  never  found  out  that.  They  was 
both  very  shy  of  talkin'  about  themselves  afore  folks, 
and  nobody  ever  knew  where  they  came  from, 
either." 

"Did  they  never  have  visitors — was  there  no 
friend  who  ever  came  to  see  them?" 

"No,  sir;  and  they  didn't  seem  to  want  anybody; 
she  was  just  his  world,  and  he  her'n.  My  girl  used 
to  think  it  was  kind  of  strange,  though,  that  they 
never  got  any  letters;  but  she  never  did,  and  never 
writ  any,  either." 

"Did  she  seem  happy?"  Geoffrey  asked,  in  a 
hushed  tone,  as  if  this  was  ground  he  hardly  liked 
to  trespass  upon. 

"As  chipper  as  a  bird,"  Jack  returned;  "and  she 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  27 

could  sing  like  one,  too.  Many's  the  night  the  boys 
have  stolen  to  yonder  house  to  listen  while  she  sang 
and  played  to  the  cap;  he  had  a  pianer  sent  up  from 
Santa  Fe;  and  she  was  always  bright  and  smilin'; 
she  was  like  a  streak  o'  sunshine  in  a  dark  place,  for 
there  wasn't  anybody  like  her  anywhere  about." 

Geoffrey  felt  his  heart  yearn  wistfully  for  this 
sweet  and  gentle  woman,  who  had  been  his  mother, 
and  who  had  brightened  that  wild  and  dreary  place 
with  her  presence  for  one  short  year. 

Still  the  mystery  regarding  his  father,  and  her 
relations  to  him,  seemed  as  dark  as  ever. 

If  he  could  not  learn  whence  they  came,  it  would 
be  impossible  to  trace  his  history  any  farther,  and  a 
feeling  of  depression  and  discouragement  began  to 
settle  upon  him. 

It  seemed  as  if  those  two  lovers  had  hidden  them 
selves  there,  cut  themselves  adrift  from  all  previous 
associations,  and  then  lived  simply  for  and  in  each 
other. 

"Did  Captain  Dale's  mine  here  pay  him  well?" 
he  asked. 

"No,  sir,  it  did  not;  and  that  is  something  that  al 
ways  seemed  strange  to  me,"  Jack  said,  reflectively. 
"He  couldn't  much  more'n  paid  expenses  here,  but 
he  never  seemed  to  care,  and  I've  always  had  a  no 
tion  that  he  had  an  interest  in  other  mines." 

"What  other  mines?"  Geoffrey  inquired,  eagerly. 


28  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"I  couldn't  say,  sir;  he  was  very  close,  and  never 
talked  business  afore  his  help." 

"What  made  you  think  he  had  other  claims?" 

"Well,  after  the  first  month  or  two  he  used  to  be 
away  considerable — not  long  at  a  time ;  but  he  went 
often,  and  was  always  so  chipper  when  he  came  back, 
I  reasoned  'twas  only  good  luck  could  make  him  so." 

"What  arrangements  did  he  make  with  you  when 
he  left  me  in  your  wife's  care?" 

"There  wa'n't  any  bargain,"  Jack  said.  "Mar 
gery  was  that  fond  of  ye  she'd  been  willin'  to  kep' 
ye  for  nothin'  rather  than  let  ye  go ;  but  the  cap  was 
always  generous — he  gave  her  two  hundred  dollars 
to  start  with,  besides  a  handsome  present  on  her  own 
account,  for  what  she  did  for  his  wife  while  she  lay 
dyin'.  Then,  for  the  first  two  years  he  came  once 
in  six  months  to  see  ye,  and  always  left  a  good  round 
sum  for  ye — there  wa'n't  nothin'  mean  about  Cap 
tain  Dale — and  when  he  didn't  come  he  sent  it." 

"Did  he  never  mention  where  he  spent  his  time?" 
Geoffrey  asked,  "or  speak  of  ever  taking  me  away 
with  him?" 

"No,  sir,  never  a  word;  the  most  he  ever  said  was 
that  he  should  put  ye  to  some  school  as  soon  as  ye 
were  old  enough." 

"Did  he — did  he  appear  to  be  fond  of  me  ?"  Geof 
frey  inquired,  hesitatingly,  a  hot  flush  rising  to  his 
cheek. 

"That  he  were,  sir;  it  was  as  much  as  ever  he'd 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  29 

let  ye  out  of  his  arms  from  the  time  he  came  till  he 
went,  though  he  never  stayed  very  long,  and  I've 
seen  the  tears  a-standin'  in  his  eyes  when  he  parted 
from  ye." 

"How  long  before — my  accident  was  his  last 
visit?" 

"It  must  have  been  more'n  a  year,  if  I  remember 
right;  but  the  money  came  regular,  and  Margery 
seemed  happier  when  he  didn't  come — she  was  al 
ways  afraid  he'd  take  ye  away  from  her.  I've  often 
wondered  what  he  did  when  he  came  again  and 
found  ye  gone — it  must  have  been  a  mortal  blow  to 
him,"  Jack  concluded,  and  then  dropped  into  a  fit  of 
musing. 


CHAPTER  III 

GEOFFREY  VISITS  THE   SCENE  OF  THE   TRAGEDY 

"WHERE  do  you  intend  to  go  from  here,  Jack?" 
Geoffrey  asked  at  length,  breaking  a  silence  of  sev 
eral  minutes,  during  which  both  had  been  busy  with 
various  thoughts  and  emotions. 

"To  California,  sir.  I'm  bound  to  have  a  last 
look  at  all  the  places  I've  ever  been  in,  though  it'll 
be  a  sad  day  that  lands  me  there.  My  poor  girl  and 
I  saw  many  happy  days  on  that  little  farm  just  out 
of  San  Francisco.  I  didn't  own  it,  we  only  hired  it, 
for  we  hadn't  money  enough  then  to  pay  for  a  home; 
but  I'd  gladly  give  up  every  dollar  I've  earned  since 
if  I  could  only  have  my  girl  back  again,"  Jack  con 
cluded,  with  another  heartbroken  sob. 

His  grief  and  remorse  were  painful  to  witness. 
His  face  was  almost  convulsed,  great  drops  came 
out  upon  his  forehead,  and  he  trembled  with  emo 
tion. 

"I  believe  I  will  go  to  California  with  you,  Jack," 
Geoffrey  said,  after  a  season  of  thought.  "I  do  not 
believe  it  will  be  exactly  safe  for  you  to  go  there  by 
yourself,  to  visit  your  old  home.  Suspicion  might  be 

30 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  31 

aroused  immediately,  and  you  would  be  liable  to  get 
into  trouble;  but  no  one  would  think  it  at  all  strange 
if  I  should  return  to  make  inquiries  regarding  my 
old  nurse." 

"Waal,  but  everybody  knew  we  went  off  to 
gether,"  said  Jack. 

"Very  true;  but  if  unpleasant  questions  were 
asked,  I  could  explain  that  you  escaped  to  Australia, 
while  I  was  cared  for  by  friends  in  New  York;  all 
of  which  would  be  true,"  Geoffrey  responded. 

"Thank  ye,  sir;  ye're  kinder  to  me  than  I  de 
serve;  but  even  if  I  knew  they'd  snap  me  up,  I  reckon 
I  should  go.  I  can  never  rest  till  I  know  where 
they've  laid  my  girl,"  Jack  returned,  with  a  heavy 
sigh. 

"You  shall,"  Geoffrey  answered,  "we  will  find  out 
all  there  is  to  know;  but  I  particularly  wish  to  learn 
if  my  father  ever  visited  the  place  after  we  left.  If 
he  did  he  probably  left  some  address  so  that  infor 
mation  could  be  had,  in  case  any  trace  of  us  was 
discovered." 

Jack  appeared  to  be  very  grateful  to  have  his 
path  thus  smoothed  for  him,  and  the  next  morning 
the  two  men  left  the  mining  village  and  proceeded 
directly  to  San  Francisco. 

Before  leaving,  however,  Geoffrey  had  cut  sev 
eral  slips  from  the  ivy  that  grew  all  about  his  moth 
er's  grave,  and  inclosing  them  wrapped  in  wet  paper, 
in  a  small  tin  box,  mailed  them  to  Gladys. 


32  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"My  darling,"  he  wrote,  "if  you  can  coax  any  of 
these  to  live,  pray  do  so,  for  my  sake.  I  have  a 
particular  reason  for  making  the  request,  which  I 
will  explain  when  I  return,"  and  Gladys  had  three 
of  them  nicely  rooted  before  she  returned  to  Brook 
lyn,  at  the  end  of  the  season. 

Geoffrey  and  his  companion  reached  the  small 
town,  near  which  Jack  Henly  had  once  lived,  and 
only  a  few  miles  from  San  Francisco,  about  noon  one 
warm  August  day. 

They  had  their  dinner,  and  rested  for  several 
hours,  then  when  the  day  grew  cooler,  Geoffrey 
started  out  alone  to  visit  Jack  Henly's  former  home, 
and  to  try  to  discover  the  grave  of  his  wife. 

He  found  the  place  without  any  difficulty,  a  small 
house  and  barn  standing  in  a  lonely  location,  about 
two  miles  from  the  town,  while  there  were  only  one 
or  two  other  dwellings  in  sight.  There  was  no  sign 
of  life  about  the  place,  and  the  buildings  were  fast 
falling  into  decay.  Weeds  and  vines  and  wild  flow 
ers  grew  all  about  the  yard,  and  everything  looked 
desolate  and  forlorn. 

Geoffrey  shivered  as  he  stepped  up  to  a  window 
and  looked  into  that  small  kitchen,  and  recalled  the 
dark  deed  which  had  been  perpetrated  there. 

He  did  not  believe  the  place  had  ever  been  in 
habited  since;  it  had  a  look  of  having  been  shunned, 
and  perhaps  regarded  as  a  haunted  house.  He  won 
dered  how  Margery  had  been  found,  and  what  meas- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  33 

ures  had  been  taken  to  discover  the  author  of  the 
crime. 

He  did  not  remain  there  long;  it  was  not  an  at 
tractive  spot,  and  there  were  no  means  of  learning 
anything  that  he  wished  to  find  out. 

He  resolved  to  visit  some  of  the  neighbors,  and 
try  to  ascertain  what  had  been  done  with  Mrs. 
Henly's  body,  and  if  Captain  Dale  had  ever  visited 
the  place  since  the  tragedy  occurred. 

The  nearest  neighbor  was  at  least  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away;  he  could  just  discern  the  roof  and  chim 
neys  over  a  little  rise  of  ground  to  the  south. 

He  mounted  his  horse  again  and  rode  toward  it, 
coming,  in  a  few  minutes,  to  a  large  and  comfortable 
farmhouse,  where  peace  and  plenty  seemed  to  reign. 

He  found  the  farmer  just  driving  up  his  cows 
from  pasture.  He  was  a  man  apparently  sixty  years 
of  age,  with  a  kind  and  genial  face,  quick  and  ener 
getic  in  his  movements  in  spite  of  his  three-score 
years. 

Geoffrey  saluted  him  courteously,  introduced  him 
self,  and  asked  if  he  could  spare  the  time  to  answer 
a  few  questions. 

The  man  called  a  boy  to  attend  to  his  cows,  then 
invited  Geoffrey  to  dismount  and  come  with  him  to 
the  wide,  pleasant  veranda,  where  they  could  con 
verse  at  their  leisure,  assuring  him  that  he  should  be 
glad  to  give  him  any  information  he  might  possess. 

Geoffrey  accepted  his  invitation,  and  then  entered 


34  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

at  once  upon   the  business   that  had  brought  him 
there. 

"I  am  in  this  locality  chiefly  to  ascertain  something 
of  the  people  who  once  occupied  that  house  over  yon 
der,"  he  said,  indicating  Jack  Henly's  deserted  dwell 
ing,  "and  thought  my  best  way  would  be  to  apply 
to  some  one  living  in  the  neighborhood." 

The  farmer's  face  fell  at  this.  Evidently  the  sub 
ject  was  not  a  pleasant  one  to  him. 

"You  couldn't  have  come  to  a  better  place  to  find 
out  what  you  want  to  know,  sir,"  he  replied,  "for 
I've  lived  here  for  the  last  thirty-five  years,  and  I  can 
tell  you  all  about  that  sad  story — at  least  all  that  any 
body  hereabouts  ever  knew;  though  it  isn't  a  cheer 
ful  subject." 

"I  am  very  fortunate,  then,  in  having  come  to 
you,"  Geoffrey  said,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction.  Then 
glancing  at  his  watch,  he  added:  "I  find  it  is  later 
than  I  thought,  and  as  I  would  like  to  get  back  to 
town  before  dark,  I  will  ask  you  to  relate  in  your 
own  way  all  that  you  know  about  the  family,  and  I 
will  restrain  all  questions  until  you  get  through." 

"Well,  sir,"  began  the  farmer,  "the  Henlys  came 
here  nigh  about  twenty-two  or  three  years  ago,  and 
we  thought  we  were  fortunate  in  having  such  thrifty 
neighbors  as  they  seemed  to  be.  There  were  only 
three  of  them,  Jack  and  his  wife,  and  a  baby  only  a 
few  months  old,  that  the  woman  had  taken  to  nurse, 
its  mother  being  dead.  Everything  went  along 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  35 

smoothly,  and  they  appeared  to  be  doing  well  for 
four  or  five  years,  when  Jack  got  into  bad  company 
and  began  to  drink.  Before  this  he  and  his  wife 
seemed  to  think  a  great  deal  of  each  other,  and  in 
bad  weather  he  would  help  her  about  the  house, 
while  in  good  weather  she  would  work  with  him  out 
of  doors.  In  this  way  he  gained  time  to  do  many 
odd  jobs  outside,  and  made  considerable  money  by 
so  doing. 

"After  Henly  got  in  with  his  wild  companions,  we 
now  and  then  heard  that  things  were  not  very  pleas 
ant  between  him  and  his  wife,  but  no  one  ever 
dreamed  how  serious  the  trouble  was  until  the  ter 
rible  tragedy  burst  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  us.  My 
wife  and  Mrs.  Henly  had  been  great  friends  from 
the  first,  and  had  got  in  the  way  of  borrowing  little 
messes  from  each  other,  as  neighbors  often  do,  when 
they  came  short  and  could  not  get  into  town  to  buy 
what  was  wanted.  So  one  afternoon  my  wife  said 
she  was  out  of  tea,  and  would  run  over  to  see  Mrs. 
Henly  for  a  little  while,  and  borrow  enough  for 
supper. 

"It  didn't  seem  as  if  she'd  been  gone  long  enough 
to  get  there,  when  she  came  flying  back  as  pale  as 
death,  wringing  her  hands  and  seeming  half-fright 
ened  out  of  her  senses.  I  rushed  to  the  door  to  meet 
her,  when  she  fell  into  my  arms  in  a  dead  faint. 
When  she  came  to  she  was  so  unnerved  by  what  she 
had  seen  that  we  had  hard  work  to  get  the  truth 


S6  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

out  of  her,  but  we  finally  made  out  that  upon  reach 
ing  Henly's  she  had  knocked  on  the  door.  No  one 
answered,  and  she  stepped  in,  as  she  had  often  done, 
when  she  saw  Mrs.  Henly  lying  on  the  floor,  a  terri 
ble  bruise  and  gash  on  her  forehead.  My  wife  was 
so  frightened  and  shocked  that  she  dropped  her  cup 
on  the  floor,  where  it  broke  in  a  dozen  pieces,  and 
then,  with  a  scream,  turned  and  ran,  as  fast  as  her 
trembling  limbs  would  carry  her,  toward  home.  I 
called  my  son  and  one  of  my  men,  and  we  started  at 
once  for  the  place.  We  found  the  woman  lying  as 
my  wife  had  described  her,  only  instead  of  being 
dead,  as  she  thought,  she  was  now  rolling  her  head 
from  side  to  side,  and  moaning  as  if  in  great  pain." 

"Not  dead!"  interrupted  Geoffrey,  in  a  startled 
tone. 

"No,  sir,  praise  the  Lord!  not  dead.  We  lifted 
her  and  laid  her  on  her  bed  just  off  the  kitchen,  when 
I  sent  my  man  for  a  doctor,  and  my  son  back  home 
to  bring  his  mother,  while  I  got  some  water  and 
bathed  the  poor  woman's  head.  My  wife  was  too 
sensible  to  nurse  her  own  feelings  when  she  found 
she  was  needed,  and  that  her  friend  was  not  dead,  and 
she  came  immediately  to  do  what  she  could  for  her. 

"When  the  doctor  came  he  said  it  was  doubtful 
if  the  poor  thing  could  live;  the  blow  on  the  head 
had  been  a  fearful  one,  and  it  was  a  wonder  that  it 
had  not  killed  her  outright.  Besides  that,  there  was 
the  print  of  three  fingers  on  her  throat,  showing  that 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  37 

there  had  been  a  struggle  with  some  one,  and  point 
ing  to  foul  play. 

"Of  course  when  we  found  that  Henly  had  de 
camped,  taking  the  boy  with  him,  we  suspected  him 
of  having  done  the  deed,  and  the  authorities  were  at 
once  set  on  his  track.  But  nothing  has  ever  been 
heard  of  him  or  the  child  from  that  day  to  this;  at 
least  not  to  my  knowledge.  His  wife  had  a  tough 
time  of  it.  We  had  her  brought  over  here,  and  my 
wife  and  daughter  took  care  of  her  through  a  three- 
months'  illness,  and  when  she  did  get  up  again  she 
was  but  the  shadow  of  her  former  self." 

"Did  she  get  well?"  Geoffrey  exclaimed,  amazed. 

"Yes,  she  recovered  her  health,  though  she  was 
not  as  strong  as  she  had  been,  and  her  head  was  apt 
to  trouble  her  at  times.  But  her  heart  was  broken 
over  the  disappearance  of  her  husband  and  the  boy. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  we  could  make  her  tell 
how  she  had  been  injured,  and  then  she  excused 
Henly.  She  said  he  had  come  home  the  worse  for 
liquor,  and  did  not  know  what  he  was  about.  She 
said  he  must  have  been  frightened,  believing  he  had 
killed  her,  and  then  taken  the  boy  and  fled.  I  sus 
pect  there  was  something  more  to  it,  but  that  was  all 
we  could  ever  get  out  of  her." 

"Ah!"  thought  Geoffrey,  "she  shielded  him  from 
the  suspicion  of  having  murdered  me  also,  and  she 
must  have  suffered  torture  on  my  account  as  well 
as  his." 


38  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"As  soon  as  she  was  able  to  get  about,"  resumed 
the  farmer,  "she  insisted  upon  going  away  altogether 
from  the  place.  She  could  not  go  back  to  her  home 
and  live  there  alone,  she  said,  and  she  wanted  to 
search  for  her  husband,  to  let  him  know  that  he  had 
not  killed  her,  as  he  must  believe.  I  imagined,  too, 
that  she  couldn't  bear  to  meet  the  boy's  father  when 
he  should  come  again  and  find  that  he  had  disap- 
pearech  She  sold  all  her  household  goods,  offered 
a  reward  of  a  thousand  dollars — having  deposited 
that  amount  in  a  bank  in  San  Francisco  for  the  pur 
pose — to  any  one  who  should  find  her  husband  or 
secure  any  definite  information  regarding  him,  and 
then  she  left  the  place  herself.  We  have  never  seen 
her  since,  nor  heard  what  became  of  her." 

"Did  she  leave  no  address?"  Geoffrey  inquired. 
"If  not,  how  could  she  expect  to  be  communicated 
with  in  case  any  tidings  of  her  husband  were  ob 
tained?" 

"I  believe  a  personal  of  some  kind  was  to  be  in 
serted  in  certain  papers  in  the  leading  cities  of  the 
country  by  those  who  had  charge  of  the  affair,"  re 
plied  the  farmer,  "but  I  guess  it  has  never  been 
printed.  Their  house  has  never  been  occupied  since. 
A  good  many  people  believe  that  Henly  murdered 
the  boy  also,  and  concealed  the  body  somewhere  on 
the  farm,  so  the  place  has  had  the  reputation  of 
being  haunted,  therefore  we  have  never  had  any 
neighbors  there." 


39 

"Since  Mrs.  Henly  was  not  murdered,  I  am  at  lib 
erty  to  set  your  heart  at  rest  upon  that  subject," 
Geoffrey  responded.  "The  boy  is  alive  and  well.  I 
am  that  boy!" 

The  farmer  started  from  his  chair  and  stared  at 
him  in  open-mouthed  astonishment  at  this  electrify 
ing  statement. 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  he  said,  at  last,  and  bending 
to  look  more  closely  into  his  visitor's  face,  "and  yet 
you  said  your  name  was  Huntress." 

"Yes,  my  name  is  Geoffrey  Dale  Huntress,"  Geof 
frey  replied,  with  a  smile  at  his  host's  astonishment. 

"That  was  the  child's  name,  Geoffrey  Dale — it 
must  be  true;  do  tell  me  how  you  happen  to  come 
back  here  after  all  these  years?"  the  farmer  urged, 
in  an  eager  tone.  Geoffrey  felt  that  he  was  war 
ranted  in  so  doing,  since  Margery  Henly  had  lived, 
and  there  was  no  longer  any  need  of  concealment  on 
Jack's  part. 

"Jack  escaped  all  pursuit,"  he  said,  "wandering 
from  place  to  place;  went  to  Texas  on  a  sheep  ranch 
for  a  few  years,  and  finally  turned  up  in  New  York, 
where  I  became  separated  from  him,  and  could  not 
be  found.  Just  about  this  time  he  became  convinced 
that  the  officers  were  on  his  track — they  must  have 
been  those  who  were  working  for  Mrs.  Henly's 
thousand-dollar  reward — and  he  was  so  frightened 
he  suddenly  shipped  for  Australia." 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  the  farmer,  sympathetically, 


40  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"he  must  have  suffered  keenly.  But  this  is  the 
strangest  part  of  the  whole  story.  I  never  imagined 
that  we  should  get  the  sequel  to  that  tragedy  over 
yonder.  Was  the  man  kind  to  you?  I  used  to  think 
he  was  not  over  fond  of  you  when  you  were  a  little 
fellow." 

"No  one  could  have  been  more  kind  than  he  was, 
as  long  as  I  was  with  him,"  Geoffrey  said,  gravely, 
as  he  recalled  all  that  Jack  had  so  recently  told  him. 

He  thought,  too,  as  long  as  Margery  had  kept  the 
secret  of  his  having  been  nearly  murdered  also,  it 
would  be  best  to  still  preserve  silence  upon  that 
point. 

"It  was  my  own  fault,"  he  continued,  "that  I  was 
lost,  for  I  wandered  away  without  his  knowledge, 
and  he  was  not  able  to  find  me,  although  he  labored 
faithfully  to  do  so,  until  driven  to  desperation  by 
the  belief  that  he  was  being  tracked." 

"How  did  you  learn  that  he  had  sailed  for  Aus 
tralia,  if  you  were  lost  before  he  went?" 

"I  learned  that  later,"  Geoffrey  briefly  replied. 

"And  what  became  of  you?" 

"A  philanthropic  gentleman  became  interested  in 
me,  adopted  me,  and  has  given  me  a  good  educa 
tion." 

"Well,  well,  well!  wonders  will  never  cease!  It's 
a  strangely  romantic  tale,  young  man.  But  how 
about  your  own  father?"  questioned  the  farmer. 

"That  is  a  mystery  which  I  came  here  to  try  to 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  41 

solve,"  Geoffrey  returned,  looking  troubled,  for  he 
seemed  to  be  no  nearer  the  solution  than  ever.  "All 
that  I  really  know  about  my  father  is  that  he  was 
called  Captain  William  Dale,  and  that  he  at  one 
time  owned  shares  in  some  of  the  mines  of  New 
Mexico,  where  my  mother  died.  I  have  been  there 
trying  to  gain  some  trace  of  him,  but  without  suc 
cess.  Then  I  came  on  here,  hoping  to  learn  some 
thing  of  him  through  people  who  had  known  the 
Henlys.  I  thought  it  probable  that  he  would  come 
here,  some  time,  to  see  me,  as  he  had  previously 
been  in  the  habit  of  doing,  and,  finding  that  I  had 
disappeared,  would  leave  his  address  so  that  he  could 
be  informed  if  anything  was  learned  of  my  fate." 

"He  has  been  here,"  the  farmer  replied;  "he 
came  only  about  two  months  after  Mrs.  Henly  left. 
I  saw  him  and  conversed  with  him.  He  appeared 
to  be  overwhelmed  with  grief  upon  learning  of  your 
strange  disappearance.  He  instituted  inquiries,  of 
fering  a  reward  of  five  thousand  dollars  for  your  re 
covery,  living,  or  one  thousand  for  positive  proof 
of  your  death,  and  under  these  circumstances  I  have 
often  wondered  why  some  clew  to  your  fate  was  not 
ascertained." 

Geoffrey  did  not  think  it  strange.  He  knew  that 
no  one  would  have  recognized  in  the  poor  little  im 
becile  whom  Jack  Henly  had  cared  for,  the  bright, 
happy  child  who  had  been  Margery's  joy  and  pride. 

He  was  touched,  too,  by  the  evidence  of  his  fath- 


42  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

er's  interest  in  and  love  for  him,  and  yet  it  seemed 
inexplicable;  for,  if  the  man  whom  he  had  met  at 
Saratoga  was  his  father,  and  he  was  anxious  to  find 
him,  as  the  farmer  said,  why  should  he  have  avoided 
him  as  he  had  done. 

"But  did  he  leave  no  address?"  he  eagerly  ques 
tioned. 

"There  was  something  a  little  queer  about  that," 
said  the  farmer,  "for  he  did  not  give  any,  really.  I 
asked  him  where  a  communication  would  reach  him, 
and  he  replied  that  anything  directed  to  Lock  Box 
43,  Santa  Fe,  would  be  all  that  was  necessary." 

Geoffrey's  face  fell  at  this. 

He  was  terribly  disappointed,  for  he  had  con 
fidently  expected  that  he  would  find  something  tan 
gible  through  this  man,  by  which  he  could  trace 
Captain  William  Dale. 

"Lock  Box  43,  Santa  Fe,"  he  repeated,  thought 
fully,  "and  that  was  all?" 

"That  was  all;  but  perhaps  the  man  didn't  want 
his  name  known  all  over  the  country,  in  connection 
with  this  tragedy  here,"  suggested  his  host. 

"That  is  so,"  Geoffrey  returned,  brightening,  but 
he  said  to  himself  that  he  would  yet  know  who  had 
held  that  post-office  box  in  Santa  Fe  twenty  years 
ago,  if  it  was  in  the  power  of  man  to  discover  it. 

"Has  he  ever  been  here  since?"  he  asked,  after 
a  pause. 

"Yes,  twice;  and  the  last  time  he  remarked,   'I 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  43 

shall  never  see  the  child  again — I  believe  he  is 
dead.'  " 

"What  was  the  date  of  his  last  visit?" 

"It  was  about  ten  years  ago,  and  I  have  never 
seen  him  since.  I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Huntress,  that 
I  can  tell  you  no  more,"  said  the  man,  evidently 
feeling  for  his  visitor's  discomfiture,  "and  it  really 
must  be  a  great  trial  to  you  to  have  such  a  mystery 
enshrouding  your  parentage." 

"It  is,  but — it  must  be  solved  sooner  or  later," 
Geoffrey  said,  resolutely. 

He  arose  to  go  as  he  spoke,  thanked  the  farmer 
heartily  for  his  kindness  in  telling  what  he  wished 
to  know,  then  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  back  to 
ward  the  town,  greatly  perplexed  and  somewhat  dis 
heartened. 

"Lock  Box  43  is  a  slender  thread  to  lead  to  much, 
but  I'll  follow  it  until  it  breaks,"  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  went  on  his  way. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING 

THE  sun  had  long  since  gone  down,  and  darkness 
was  rapidly  settling  over  the  country,  as  Geoffrey 
pursued  his  way,  grateful  indeed  that  he  had  such 
good  news  to  take  back  to  Jack,  but  well-nigh  dis 
couraged  on  his  own  account. 

It  had  been  agreed  that  he  should  learn  all  he 
could  about  Henly's  old  home,  and  where  Margery 
was  buried,  and  that  Jack  should  himself  revisit  the 
place  after  nightfall,  upon  his  return,  since  he  did 
not  dare  to  make  his  appearance  there  by  daylight. 

The  road  to  the  town  lay  through  a  heavy  growth 
of  timber,  and,  as  Geoffrey  came  into  it,  the  dark 
ness  was  so  intensified  that  at  first  he  could  hardly 
distinguish  the  way,  when,  suddenly,  his  horse  gave 
a  startled  snort  and  shied  to  one  side,  nearly  throw 
ing  his  rider  from  the  saddle. 

"Gently,  gently,  sir,"  he  said,  reassuringly,  as  he 
quickly  recovered  himself.  "What  is  the  trouble, 
my  boy?" 

He  glanced  searchingly  about  him,  and  saw  a 

44 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  45 

muffled  figure  sitting  upon  a  rock  under  the  shadow 
of  a  great  tree. 

Geoffrey's  hand  instinctively  caught  the  handle  of 
the  revolver  that  he  always  carried  when  traveling, 
and  then  he  rode  directly  up  to  the  figure. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded,  "and  why  are  you 
sitting  here  alone  in  the  darkness?" 

"Do  not  fear,  sir,"  responded  a  quiet,  honest 
voice.  "I  am  only  a  woman  on  my  way  home  from 
town,  and  sat  down  here  to  rest  for  a  moment." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madame,  for  accosting  you 
as  I  did,"  Geoffrey  returned,  apologetically,  "but  I 
confess  I  was  startled,  as  well  as  my  horse,  for  a 
moment.  Are  you  not  afraid  to  be  traveling  this 
lonely  way  at  this  time  of  the  evening?" 

"No,  sir,  I  am  not  afraid.  I  know  every  step  of 
the  road,  but  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was  once,  and 
it  tires  me  to  walk,"  the  woman  replied,  with  a 
weary  note  in  her  voice,  accompanied  by  a  heavy 
sigh. 

"Have  you  far  to  go  ?"  the  young  man  asked. 

"No,  only  to  the  second  house  from  here — to 
Farmer  Bruce's." 

"Ah!  You  are  going  to  Mr.  Bruce's.  I  have 
just  come  from  there.  I  will  turn  about  and  see  you 
safely  to  the  house;  or,  if  you  could  manage  to  sit 
on  a  man's  saddle,  you  shall  ride,  and  I  will  lead 
my  horse,"  Geoffrey  said,  kindly;  for  now  that  he 
had  become  accustomed  to  the  dim  light  he  could  dis- 


46  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

cern  that  the  woman  looked  worn  and  weary,  and 
his  sympathies  were  enlisted  for  her. 

"No,  no ;  thank  you,  sir,  I  will  not  trouble  you," 
the  woman  returned.  "'But  tell  me,"  she  continued, 
rising  and  coming  toward  his  side,  "is  Farmer  Bruce 
still  alive?  Is  the  family  well?" 

Something  in  her  anxious  tone  and  hei  agitated 
manner,  as  well  as  these  questions,  sent  a  sudden 
thrill  through  the  young  man's  heart. 

He  bent  and  looked  searchingly  into  her  face, 
which  was  upraised  to  his. 

"Yes,  Farmer  Bruce  is  living.  You  said  you  were 
on  your  way  home.  Do  you  belong  to  the  family?" 
he  asked. 

"No — I — I  used  to  live  near  them;  I  have  come 
for  a  visit,"  was  the  confused  reply. 

Geoffrey  bent  still  nearer  to  her,  when  the  woman 
suddenly  uttered  a  startled  cry,  and  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

"Oh,  sir!  who  are  you?"  she  cried.  "I  am  sure 
you  must  be  Master  Geoffrey.  You  are  so  like  your 
father.  I  should  know  you  anywhere,  and  I  never 
could  forget  the  boy  I  loved.  You  are  Geoffrey, 
aren't  you?  and  don't  you  remember — Margery?" 

She  ended  with  a  sob,  and  her  hold  tightened  on 
his  arm  as  if  she  feared  to  lose  him. 

Geoffrey  had  half-suspected  her  identity  when  she 
had  inquired  so  eagerly  about  Farmer  Bruce;  but 
it  was  a  shock  to  him,  nevertheless,  to  find  his  sus- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  47 

picions  thus  verified,  and  he  felt  that,  if  he  should 
never  learn  anything  more  definite  regarding  his 
father,  he  should  feel  more  than  repaid  for  his  jour 
ney  hither,  just  to  have  found  Jack  and  Margery, 
seen  them  restored  to  each  other,  and  the  shadow 
removed  from  their  lives. 

He  seized  the  trembling  hand  that  lay  upon  his 
arm,  and  shook  it  heartily. 

"Yes,  I  am  Geoffrey,  and  I  do  remember  Mar 
gery,"  he  said,  in  a  glad,  earnest  tone. 

The  poor,  long-suffering,  wandering  creature 
dropped  her  head  against  his  horse's  neck,  and  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"Heaven  bless  you,  Master  Geoffrey,  for  owning 
it  at  last — my  heart's  been  well-nigh  crushed  since 
you  denied  it,  and  ran  away  from  me  in  New  York," 
she  said,  brokenly,  between  her  sobs. 

"Denied  it,  and  ran  away  from  you  in  New 
York!"  repeated  the  young  man,  astonished. 

"Yes,  sir;  sure  you  haven't  forgotten  that  day 
when  you  bought  the  roses  of  me,  and  I  asked  you 
if  you  wasn't  Geoffrey  Dale?  You  told  me  no — 
your  name  was  Everet,  and  you  didn't  know  any 
thing  about  Jack,  nor  about  any  of  the  other  things 
I  talked  of." 

A  light  broke  upon  Geoffrey's  mind. 

She  had  seen  Everet  Mapleson,  and  made  a  very 
natural  mistake;  she  had  believed  him  to  be  the  child 


48  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

she  had  loved  and  cared  for,  and  it  was  no  wonder 
she  was  pained  by  his  refusal  to  recognize  her. 

"I  never  bought  any  roses  of  you  in  New  York, 
Margery,"  he  said,  kindly.  "I  have  never  seen  you 
until  now  since  I  was  a  small  boy  of  five  years." 

The  woman  looked  up  at  him  amazed. 

Geoffrey  smiled  frankly  into  her  upturned  face. 

"The  young  man  whom  you  met  was  a  Mr.  Evtret 
Mapleson;  we  were  in  college  together,  and  we  look 
so  much  alike  that  we  are  often  mistaken  for  each 
other,"  he  explained. 

"Ah!  dearie,  my  heart  is  lighter  now  you've  told 
me  this,"  Margery  said,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh.  "I 
was  cruelly  hurt  when  I  thought  you  wouldn't  own 
me,  and  I  was  so  sure,  too,  that  you  could  tell  me 
somtehing  about  Jack — can't  you  tell  me  where  he 
is?  Where,  where  have  you  been  all  these  years, 
Master  Geoffrey.  Ah,  I  feared  that  cruel  blow  that 
Jack  gave  you  had  killed  you,  and  I'd  never  see  you 
again ;  but  poor  man  !  he'd  never  have  lifted  his  hand 
against  you  if  he'd  been  himself.  Heaven  pity  him! 
wherever  he  is,  if  he's  living  at  all." 

She  had  rambled  on  in  this  disconnected  way  with 
out  even  waiting  for  a  reply  to  any  of  her  questions, 
and  Geoffrey  felt  the  tears  rise  to  his  eyes,  as  he 
realized  something  of  the  burden  that  lay  so  heavy 
on  her  heart,  and  had  made  the  long,  long  years  so 
dreary  and  oppressive  to  her. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  49 

He  dismounted  from  his  horse,  and  taking  her  by 
the  arm  said,  gently: 

"Come  back  to  the  rock,  Margery,  where  you 
were  sitting,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  you  wish  to  know. 
It  is  a  long  story,  and  you  will  be  weary  with  stand- 
ing." 

She  looked  up  appealingly. 

"One  word,  Master  Geoffrey.    Jack " 

Her  trembling  lips  refused  to  utter  another  word, 
and  the  young  man  thought  he  might  as  well  tell  her 
at  once  about  her  husband  and  set  her  heart  at  rest. 

"Jack  is  living  and  well — within  a  mile  of  you  at 
this  very  moment,"  he  said,  in  a  cheerful  tone. 

"Oh,  dearie !  Heaven  reward  you  for  those 
blessed  words,"  Margery  murmured;  then  her  head 
sank  upon  her  breast,  and,  tottering  weakly  forward, 
she  dropped  upon  the  rock  where  Geoffrey  had  first 
seen  her,  and  fell  to  sobbing  like  a  tired  child. 

Geoffrey  waited  until  she  had  grown  somewhat 
calmer,  and  then  told  her,  as  briefly  as  he  could, 
something  of  his  own  and  Jack's  history  during  the 
last  eighteen  years. 

She  never  interrupted  him  during  the  recital,  but 
seemed  to  drink  in  every  word,  as  one  perishing 
from  thirst  would  drink  in  pure,  life-giving  water. 

When  at  last  he  had  told  her  all,  she  lifted  her 
face,  and,  while  she  wiped  the  streaming  tears  from 
her  eyes,  she  exclaimed: 

"Ah !  Master  Geoffrey,  I  feel  almost  as  if  I  was 


50  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

drawing  nigh  to  heaven,  after  all  the  waiting,  the 
wandering,  the  loneliness,  and  misery,  to  find  my 
Jack  again,  and  know  that  he  has  been  true  to  his 
love  for  me  all  the  time.  Poor  fellow !  his  fate  has 
been  harder  than  mine,  after  all,  for  he's  had  to 
carry  a  burden  of  guilt  with  him;  but  it  is  all  over 
now,  thank  heaven !  You  will  take  me  straight  to 
him?"  she  concluded,  eagerly. 

"Of  course  I  will,"  Geoffrey  replied,  heartily,  "he 
is  waiting  at  the  public  house  in  the  town  for  me; 
waiting  for  me  to  come  and  tell  him  about  his  old 
home,  from  which  he  fled  so  many  years  ago,  and 
about  a  certain  grave,  which  he  has  imagined  has  lain 
lonely  and  neglected  all  that  time,  and  which  he  was 
to  go  to  visit,  under  cover  of  the  darkness,  upon  my 
return." 

"Poor  man !  poor  man !"  sobbed  Margery,  all  un 
mindful  of  her  own  long  suffering,  in  her  sympathy 
for  her  erring  husband,  "but,  praise  the  Lord,  there's 
no  grave  for  him  to  weep  over,  and  he  can  walk  the 
earth  once  more  and  fear  no  man." 

She  arose  and  drew  her  cloak  about  her  prepara 
tory  to  going  back  to  the  town  with  her  companion. 

Geoffrey  insisted  that  she  should  ride,  while  he 
walked  beside  her  and  guided  the  horse. 

He  saw  that  she  was  very  weary,  as  well  as  weak, 
from  her  recent  agitation,  and  not  fit  to  walk  the 
long  distance. 

She  demurred  at  first,  but  he  would  listen  to  no 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  51 

objections,  and  she  permitted  him  to  put  her  into 
the  saddle,  and  then  they  started  on  their  way. 

Geoffrey  questioned  her  about  her  life  during  the 
past  eighteen  yars,  and  he  marveled,  as  he  listened 
to  her  story,  at  the  woman's  unwavering  devotion 
and  love  for  the  man  whose  hand  so  nearly  deprived 
her  of  life. 

She  told  him,  as  Mr.  Bruce  had  already  done,  that, 
as  soon  as  she  was  able,  she  had  sold  off  all  her 
household  goods  and  the  farm-stock,  and  realized 
over  a  thousand  dollars.  She  deposited  all  but 
enough  for  her  immediate  needs  in  a  bank  of  San, 
Francisco,  where  she  already  had  some  money  laid 
by,  and  instructed  a  lawyer  there  to  use  it  as  a  re 
ward  for  the  discovery  of  her  husband. 

She  then  began  her  own  tiresome  pilgrimage  to 
search  for  him  herself.  She  roved  from  one  large 
city  to  another,  stopping  some  time  in  each,  now 
taking  in  washing  and  ironing  to  support  herself  and 
earn  money  to  continue  her  search  in  the  next  place 
where  she  should  go;  going  out  as  a  servant  in  other 
places,  or  selling  flowers  or  confectionery  upon  the 
corners  of  the  streets  for  the  same  purpose,  while 
she  eagerly  scanned  every  face  she  saw  in  the  hope 
of  somewhere  and  sometime  coming  across  either 
Jack  or  the  boy;  she  had  never  believed,  as  others 
did,  that  the  latter  was  dead.  She  felt  sure  that  Jack 
must  have  discovered  some  sign  of  life  about  him, 


52  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

and  taken  him  away  with  the  hope  of  having  him 
restored. 

In  this  way  she  had  visited  every  large  city  in 
the  United  States.  She  had  been  in  different  min 
ing  districts  also,  thinking  that  perhaps  her  hus 
band  might  have  gone  back  to  his  old  business,  hop 
ing  thus  to  hide  himself  more  securely.  She  had 
even  been  in  Canada  and  other  British  provinces,  but 
had  never  met  with  the  least  encouragement  in  her 
search,  until  that  day  when  she  had  seen  Everet 
Mapleson  in  New  York  and  believed  him  to  be  Geof 
frey.  Her  disappointment  and  grief,  at  his  per 
sistent  denial  of  all  knowledge  of  her,  had  actually 
prostrated  her  for  the  first  time  during  all  her  tire 
less  search,  and  she  had  not  been  able  to  leave  her 
bed  for  several  weeks,  which  accounts  for  young 
Mapleson's  inability  to  find  her. 

At  length,  during  the  last  few  months,  she  had 
relinquished  all  hope;  but  an  insatiable  longing 
seized  her  to  visit  her  old  home  once  more,  and  the 
kind  family  who  had  befriended  her  in  the  hour  of 
her  sore  need.  After  that,  she  meant  to  draw  her 
money  from  the  bank  in  San  Francisco,  and  with  it 
purchase  a  right  in  some  home  for  the  aged,  where 
she  could  peacefully  spend  the  remainder  of  her  life. 

The  woman  was  not  old,  being  only  about  forty- 
five  years  of  age,  but  her  sorrow  and  the  laborious 
existence  she  had  led  had  aged  her  far  more  than 
even  another  decade  could  have  done. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  53 

She  could  tell  Geoffrey  nothing  more  regarding  the 
identity  of  his  father  than  he  already  knew.  She 
had  never  seen  him  since  his  last  visit  to  her  home, 
more  than  a  year  previous  to  the  tragedy,  and  she 
had  never  known  any  other  address  than  the  one  of 
which  Mr.  Bruce  had  spoken.  He  had  told  her  to 
send  a  letter  to  "Lock  Box  43,  Santa  Fe,"  if  any 
thing  should  ever  happen  to  his  boy,  and  she  wished 
to  summon  him. 

But  she  had  gone  away  without  communicating 
with  him;  she  had  been  eager  to  get  away  before  he 
could  come  again,  for  she  had  not  courage  to  meet 
him  and  tell  him  the  dreadful  story  about  his  child, 
which  she  alone  knew. 

"Margery,"  Geoffrey  said,  gravely,  after  she  had 
concluded  her  account,  "have  you  never  thought  that 
there  was  something  very  strange  in  the  fact  that  my 
father  should  have  been  so  reserved  about  himself 
and  kept  his  only  child  so  remote  and  concealed  from 
all  his  friends?" 

"Yes,  Master  Geoffrey,  it  did  strike  me  as  queer, 
at  times,  but  I  reasoned  that  perhaps  he  hadn't  any 
very  near  friends,  for  he  talked  of  putting  you  to 
some  school  as  soon  as  you  were  old  enough  to  go 
away  from  me." 

"Do  you  think  that  everything  was  all  right  be 
tween  him  and  my  mother?" 

"How  right,  sir?"  the  woman  asked,  with  sur 
prise. 


-54  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"Do  you  think  that  they  were  legally  married? 
Did  you  never  see  or  hear  anything  while  you  lived 
with  them,  to  make  you  suspect  that  they  might  not 
be  husband  and  wife?  It  is  a  hard  question  for  a 
son  to  ask,  but  the  secrecy,  with  which  my  father 
has  seemed  to  hedge  himself  about,  has  led  me  to 
fear  that  there  was  some  grave  reason  why  he  could 
not,  or  would  not,  have  me  with  him  and  openly 
recognize  me.  Why  was  he  unwilling  to  have  you 
use  his  name  if  you  had  occasion  to  write  to  him, 
but  instead  gave  you  a  blind  address,  which  no  one 
could  recognize,  and  to  which,  doubtless,  he  alone 
had  the  key?" 

"Good  Lord,  Master  Geoffrey,  never  have  any 
such  thoughts  entered  my  head  before!"  Margery 
exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  startled  amazement.  "I 
never  saw  a  man  fonder  of  his  wife  than  Captain 
Dale  was  of  your  mother;  and  he  had  reason  to  be 
fond  of  her,  too,  for  she  worshiped  the  very  air  he 
breathed,  and  was  always  so  sweet  and  merry  that 
a  man  would  have  been  a  brute  not  to  have  loved 
her.  But " 

"Well?"  queried  Geoffrey,  eagerly,  the  hot  blood 
surging  to  his  brow,  with  a  feeling  of  dread,  as  she 
stopped,  a  note  of  sudden  conviction  in  her  tone. 

"Well,  I  do  remember,  once,  that  she  did  not 
seem  quite  happy,  but  I  have  never  given  it  a  second 
thought  until  now,"  Margery  said,  reflectively. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  55 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  the  young  man  commanded, 
briefly. 

"They  had  been  out  for  a  walk  one  night  after 
tea,  and  it  was  quite  dark  when  they  returned.  They 
stopped  a  moment  on  the  steps,  before  coming  in, 
and  I  was  at  an  open  window  upstairs  just  above 
them.  Your  mother  had  been  crying — I  could  tell 
by  the  sound  of  her  voice — all  at  once  she  turned 
and  threw  her  arms  around  the  captain's  neck  and 
sobbed : 

'  'Oh,  Will,  I  wish  you  would,  for  my  sake  and — 
for  our  baby's  sake.' 

'  'I  will,  my  darling,'  the  captain  told  her,  'it 
shall  be  done  just  as  soon  as  I  can  turn  myself,  but 
it  would  ruin  me  to  do  it  now.  Have  patience,  my 
pet,  and  it  will  be  all  right  in  a  few  months  more, 
at  the  furthest.' 

"She  didn't  say  another  word,  only  uttered  a  tired 
kind  of  sigh,  kissed  him  softly,  and  then  they  went 
in.  But  I  never  thought  much  about  it  afterward. 
I  didn't  know  but  what  she  had  been  coaxing  him  to 
leave  the  mines  and  go  back  to  where  they  came 
from,  for  I'm  sure  it  couldn't  have  been  nice  for  her 
to  live  there  where  there  wasn't  hardly  another 
woman  fit  to  associate  with  her,"  Margery  con 
cluded,  thoughtfully. 

But  Geoffrey  believed  his  gentle  mother  had  been 
asking  for  something  far  more  important  than  a 
change  of  residence;  that  would  have  been  of  com- 


56  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

paratively  little  consequence  to  her,  loving  his  father 
as  she  did.  He  imagined  that  she  had  been  plead 
ing  to  be  recognized  as  Captain  Dale's  lawful  wife, 
so  that  her  child  might  have  honorable  birth. 

He  sighed  heavily,  for  the  farther  he  went  in  his 
search  the  darker  and  more  perplexing  grew  the  way. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  STARTLING  RECOGNITION 

REACHING  the  public  house  where  he  had  left 
Jack,  Geoffrey  quietly  drew  Margery  into  the  small 
parlor,  where  he  made  her  lay  aside  her  bonnet  and 
cloak,  put  her  into  a  comfortable  rocker  to  rest,  and 
then  went  out  to  break  the  glad  tidings  of  her  ex 
istence  and  return  to  her  husband. 

He  found  him  sitting  alone  on  the  porch  outside 
the  barroom — nothing  ever  tempted  him  inside  such 
a  place  nowadays — looking  wistfully  out  toward  the 
east,  where  the  full  August  moon  was  just  rising 
above  the  horizon  in  all  its  splendor. 

"Well,  Jack,  has  the  time  seemed  very  long  to 
you?"  Geoffrey  asked,  in  a  cheerful  tone,  as  he  sat 
down  beside  him. 

"It  has,  sir;  I've  had  hard  work  to  wait.  I've  a 
strange  hankerin'  after  the  old  home  to-night.  If 
I  could  only  wake  up  and  find  I'd  been  dreamin'  all 
these  years,  and  the  old  place  just  as  it  was,  with  my 
girl  waitin'  at  the  door  for  me,  I'd  almost  be  willin' 
to  give  up  my  hope  o'  heaven.  But  when  I  think  it's 
only  an  empty  house — a  cold  hearthstone,  and — a 

57 


58  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

grave  somewhere  nigh,  that  I'm  goin'  to  find,  I  feel 
a'most  like  givin'  up  the  battle." 

The  man's  head  sank  upon  his  breast  in  a  discon 
solate  way,  while  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  no  heart  to 
ask  Geoffrey  anything  about  the  trip  from  which  he 
had  just  returned. 

The  young  man  waited  a  few  moments,  hoping  he 
would  question  him;  but  as  he  still  remained  ab 
sorbed  in  his  own  sad  thoughts,  he  at  length  re 
marked: 

"Well,  Jack,  I  found  Farmer  Bruce." 

"Ay!  then  he's  alive  yet;  he  must  be  nigh  on  to 
sixty,"  the  man  replied,  looking  up  now  with  a  gleam 
of  interest. 

"I  should  judge  him  to  be  about  that;  but  he's  hale 
and  hearty,  and  seems  like  a  very  kind-hearted  man, 
too." 

"A  better  never  lived!"  Jack  affirmed;  "many's 
the  good  turn  he  and  his  wife  has  done  me,  and — 
ah! " 

A  shiver  completed  the  sentence,  as  if  those  by 
gone  days  were  too  painful  to  dwell  upon. 

Geoffrey  pitied  the  poor  fellow  from  the  depths 
of  his  heart,  and  yet  he  hardly  knew  where  to  begin, 
or  how  to  break  his  good  news  to  him. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  Mr.  Bruce  told  me,  Jack?" 
he  at  length  asked. 

The  man  nodded,  and,  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
his  companion  saw  a  gray  pallor  settle  over  his  face, 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  59 

which  seemed  to  have  grown  almost  rigid  in  its  out 
lines. 

Geoffrey  began  by  telling  him  how  Mrs.  Bruce 
had  gone  over  to  borrow  some  tea  of  Mrs.  Henly, 
the  day  following  Jack's  flight;  how  she  knocked  and 
there  came  no  response,  when  she  stepped  into  the 
kitchen  and  found  Margery  lying  on  the  floor,  and 
becoming  so  frightened  at  the  sight,  she  had  turned 
and  fled  back  to  her  home,  with  hardly  more  than  a 
glance  at  the  prostrate  woman. 

"Farmer  Bruce,"  he  went  on,  "at  once  went  back 
to  your  house,  taking  his  son  and  a  hired  man  with 
him.  They  lifted  Margery  and  laid  her  on  her  bed, 
and  then  John  Bruce  rode  off  with  all  his  might  after 
a  doctor " 

'"Doctor!  What  could  they  want  of  a  doctor? — 
a  coroner,  ye  mean,"  interrupted  Jack,  in  a  thick, 
hoarse  voice. 

"No,  a  doctor,  Jack — she  needed  one;  she  didn't 
need  a  coroner." 

"Ha!" 

The  man  started  wildly  to  his  feet  as  the  hoarse 
cry  burst  from  him;  then  he  sank  back  again,  press 
ing  his  hands  hard  against  his  temples  and  staring 
about  him  in  a  half-dazed  way,  as  if  he  had  not  com 
prehended  what  he  had  heard. 

"Master  Geoffrey,  don't — don't  tell  me  no  more," 
he  pleaded,  in  an  agonized  tone.  "I  can't  bear  it; 
they  didn't  need  any  doctor  to  tell  them  that  she  was 


60  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

dead — just  tell  me  where  to  find  her  grave.  I'll  go 
and  take  one  look  at  it;  then  I'll  make  tracks  again 
for  Australia;  I  can't  stop  here." 

The  man's  tone  was  so  despairing,  his  attitude  so 
hopeless,  and  his  words  so  heartbroken,  that  Geof 
frey  had  hard  work  to  preserve  his  own  composure. 

"But,  Jack,  there — there  isn't  any  grave,"  he  said 
at  last. 

Jack  lifted  another  vacant  look  to  the  young  man's 
face. 

"No  grave!  no  coroner!  a  doctor!"  he  muttered, 
then  suddenly  he  seemed  to  comprehend,  and  was 
galvanized  into  life. 

He  sprang  up;  he  seized  Geoffrey  by  the  shoulder. 

"Boy!  boy!"  he  cried,  in  a  strained,  unnatural 
voice,  "ye  can't  mean  it!  ye  can't  mean  that  she  didn't 
die  !  that — that  I  didn't  kill  her  after  all !  Tell  me — 
tell  me  quick!  if  ye've  brought  me  such  blessed  truth 
as  that,  I'm  yer  slave  as  long  as  I  live." 

He  was  terribly  agitated.  He  shook  as  if  he  had 
suddenly  been  attacked  with  violent  ague,  and  Geof 
frey  could  see  his  broad  chest  rise  and  fall  with  the 
heavy  throbbing  of  his  startled  heart. 

"Sit  down,  Jack,"  he  commanded,  rising  and  put 
ting  him  back  into  his  chair;  "you  must  be  more  calm, 
or  I  cannot  tell  you  anything.  Margery  was  not 
dead,  but  she  was  dreadfully  hurt,  and  was  ill  for  a 
long  time,  so  ill  that  for  more  than  a  month  they 
thought  every  day  that  she  must  die." 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  61 

"And— she— didn't " 

The  words  were  almost  inarticulate,  but  Geoffrey 
understood  him  by  the  motion  of  his  lips. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  he  continued,  catching  his  breath 
in  a  spasmodic  way,  a  look  of  horror  in  his  eyes, 
"don't  tell  me  that  she  lived  to  be — like  as  you  was." 

"No,  no,  Jack,  she  got  well,"  Geoffrey  replied, 
but  his  own  voice  shook  over  the  words. 

"O-h!mygirl!" 

Jack  Henly  slipped  from  his  chair,  falling  upon 
his  knees  beside  his  companion,  while  his  head 
dropped  a  dead  weight  against  his  arm. 

"Look  here,  my  man,"  Geoffrey  now  said,  with 
gruff  kindness,  though  he  was  nearly  unmanned  him 
self,  "this  isn't  going  to  do  at  all.  You  must  brace 
up,  for  there  is  a  long  story  to  be  told  yet." 

He  lifted  him  to  his  feet  by  main  force,  drew  his 
arm  within  his  own,  and  compelled  him  to  walk  up 
and  down  the  porch  two  or  three  times.  Then  he 
seated  him  again,  and  began  at  once  to  tell  poor 
Margery's  story. 

The  man  listened  as  if  spellbound;  he  scarcely 
seemed  to  breathe,  so  intent  was  he  to  catch  every 
word.  He  did  not  move,  even,  until  Geoffrey  men 
tioned  meeting  the  strange  woman  in  the  wood,  when 
he  looked  up,  a  wild  gleam  in  his  eye,  a  cry  of  joy 
on  his  lips. 

When  Geoffrey  repeated  what  she  had  told  him 
about  her  traveling  from  city  to  city,  searching  for 


62  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

her  husband,  working  at  whatever  her  hand  could 
find  to  do,  to  earn  the  money  necessary  to  keep  up 
her  tireless  quest,  he  could  control  himself  no  longer. 
Great  sobs  broke  from  him. 

"My  girl!  my  girl!  I  never  deserved  it  of  her! 
Where  is  she,  Master  Geoffrey?  Tell  me  and  I'll 
creep  on  my  knees  to  her  feet  and  ask  her  forgive 
ness  !"  he  wildly  cried. 

"Jack,  she  is  here!" 

"Here!  Where?"  and  he  glanced  about  him  in 
fear  and  awe. 

"Here,  in  this  very  house!  waiting,  longing  to 
see  you!  to  ease  your  conscience  of  its  burden,  and 
tell  you  that  she  freely  forgives  everything !" 

"Can  she?"  the  trembling  husband  breathed  in 
an  awed  tone. 

"Come  and  see,"  Geoffrey  returned,  and  taking 
him  by  the  arm,  he  led  him  toward  the  parlor  where 
Margery  was  anxiously  awaiting  him,  her  patience 
nearly  exhausted  by  the  long  delay. 

Reaching  the  door  Geoffrey  opened  it,  pushed 
Jack  inside  the  room,  then  shut  the  two  in  together. 

"Jack!" 

"Madge!  my  girl!" 

The  glad,  fond  cry  of  the  wife,  restored  at  last 
to  her  long-sought  loved  one,  the  pleading,  repent 
ant  intonation  of  the  erring  husband,  were  the  only 
sounds  that  he  caught,  as  he  turned  away,  and  with 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  63 

tears  in  his  eyes,  went  out  alone  into  the  quiet  sum 
mer  night  leaving  them  in  their  joy. 

Two  hours  later,  Jack  came  to  seek  him,  but  he 
walked  like  a  drunken  man,  weakly  and  unsteadily.  . 

His  unexpected  happiness  was  almost  more  than 
he  had  strength  to  bear,  and  he  seemed  weak  and 
shaken  as  if  from  a  long  illness ;  but  on  his  rough 
and  weather-beaten  face  there  was  a  look  of  peace 
and  joy  that  Geoffrey  never  forgot. 

"Master  Geoffrey,"  he  said,  in  an  humble  tone, 
though  there  was  a  ring  of  gratitude  and  gladness 
in  it,  "it's  all  right  at  last,  thank  God!  I'll  never 
say  there  ain't  a  God  again.  I  can  face  the  whole 
world,  now  that  my  Madge  lives  and  loves  me  the 
same  as  ever.  I  can  breathe  free  once  more,  since 
I  know  her  blood  ain't  on  my  hands — oh!  it's  too 
good  a'most  to  be  true!"  he  continued,  drawing  a 
long,  full  breath,  "and  bless  ye,  sir,  all  I've  got  in 
the  world  wouldn't  pay  ye  what  I  owe  ye." 

"Jack,  you  owe  me  nothing,"  Geoffrey  responded, 
grasping  him  heartily  by  the  hand.  "I  do  not  forget 
who  cared  for  me  during  the  first  few  years  of  my 
life,  and  if  I  have  helped  in  any  way  to  restore  peace 
to  you  and  happiness  to  Margery,  I  am  more  than 
paid  already." 

"Thank  ye,  sir;  but  won't  ye  come  in  and  sup  with 
us — that  is,  if  ye  haven't  had  something  already," 
Jack  pleaded  with  an  air  of  humility. 

"No.     I've  been  too  busy  with  my  thoughts  to 


64  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

care  anything  for  eating,  and  I'll  join  you  with  pleas 
ure,"  Geoffrey  answered,  cordially. 

He  returned  to  the  parlor  with  Jack,  where  he 
found  Margery  with  a  beaming  face,  and  the  land 
lady  laying  the  table  for  three. 

It  was  two  hours  later  before  they  separated  for 
the  night,  and  during  that  time  many  plans  for  the 
future  were  discussed  by  the  reunited  couple. 

Neither  Jack  nor  Margery  felt  inclined  to  remain 
in  the  West,  where  they  had  suffered  so  much,  and 
where  there  would  be  constant  reminders  of  the 
painful  past,  and  it  was  finally  decided  that  they 
should  proceed  at  once  to  the  farm  which  Jack  still 
owned  in  New  Jersey,  and  if  Margery  was  pleased 
with  the  place  they  would  settle  there  and  spend  the 
remainder  of  their  lives  upon  it.  The  next  morning 
they  went  to  pay  Farmer  Bruce  a  visit,  and  inform 
him  of  the  happy  ending  to  all  their  trouble. 

The  following  day  they  went  to  San  Francisco, 
where  they  drew  Margery's  money  from  the  bank,  in 
which  it  had  remained  so  long,  and  a  snug  little  sum 
it  was,  too,  having  accumulated  for  so  many  years. 
A  week  later  they  all  turned  their  backs  upon  the 
Pacific  Coast  and  set  their  faces  toward  the  East- 
Geoffrey  accompanied  them  as  far  as  Cheyenne, 
Wyoming,  where  he  took  leave  of  them,  as  he  was 
going  southward  into  New  Mexico  again.  But  he 
promised  to  pay  them  an  early  visit  when  he  should 
return  to  Brooklyn. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  65 

While  these  events  were  transpiring  in  the  far 
West,  an  interesting  incident  occurred  in  the  far 
East — in  no  other  city  than  Boston — which  has  its 
bearing  on  our  story  and  properly  belongs  here. 

On  a  bright,  beautiful  summer  morning,  in  the 
month  of  July,  a  lady  entered  a  handsome  drug  store 
on  Washington  street,  and  asked  permission  to  look 
at  a  city  directory. 

She  was  a  finely  formed,  brilliant-looking  woman, 
elegantly  dressed,  and  bearing  herself  with  the  ease 
and  self-possession  of  one  accustomed  to  the  most 
cultured  circles  of  society. 

A  portly  gentleman,  with  a  wealth  of  white  hair 
crowning  his  shapely  head,  and  wearing  gold-bowed 
spectacles,  stepped  from  behind  his  desk  as  the  lady 
made  her  request,  and  politely  laid  the  book  before 
her.  As  he  did  so,  and  his  keen  glance  fell  upon  her 
face,  he  started  slightly,  but  was  far  too  well-bred 
to  betray  his  surprise  at  her  appearance,  if  he  ex 
perienced  any,  and  immediately  returned  to  his  post 
at  his  desk. 

But  he  managed  to  place  himself  where  he  could 
see  his  visitor,  without  being  himself  observed. 

The  woman  turned  to  the  D's  in  the  directory,  and 
ran  her  neatly  gloved  finger  slowly  down  the  line, 
pausing  here  and  there  as  a  name  appeared  to  attract 
her  special  attention. 

After  carefully  searching  several  pages,  she  turned 
back  and  began  to  go  over  the  same  ground  again, 


66  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

while  a  faint  line  of  perplexity  and  annoyance  ap 
peared  between  her  finely  arched  brows. 

This  second  search  seemed  to  be  as  unsuccessful 
as  the  previous  one  had  been,  and  for  the  third  time 
she  reviewed  the  list  of  names  under  the  letter  D. 
It  was  useless,  however;  the  name  she  sought  was 
•not  there.  She  stood  musing  for  a  few  moments, 
then  opening  her  pocketbook — an  elegant  affair  of 
Russia  leather  with  clasps  of  gold — she  took  from 
it  a  card  to  which  she  referred. 

"The  name  is  surely  not  in  the  directory,"  she 
murmured. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  then  the  distin 
guished-looking  gentleman  behind  the  desk  stepped 
forward  again. 

"Did  you  speak  to  me,  madame?"  he  inquired, 
blandly. 

The  lady  started  and  looked  up  quickly,  the  color 
-on  her  cheek  deepening  a  trifle  at  his  query. 

"I  did  not  know  that  I  spoke  at  all,"  she  replied, 
with  a  brilliant  smile,  which  revealed  two  rows  of 
white,  handsome  teeth,  every  one  of  them  her  own. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  druggist,  with  a 
bow  and  a  backward  step,  as  if  to  beat  a  retreat 
again. 

Madame  made  a  motion  with  her  faultlessly 
gloved  hand  to  detain  him. 

"I  was  looking  for  the  name  of  August  Damon," 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  6T 

she  said,  her  eyes  wandering  again  to  the  directory; 
"but  I  do  not  find  it  there." 

"Ah !  some  one  whose  residence  you  wished  to  findl 
in  the  city?"  the  gentleman  remarked. 

"Yes.  I  imagined  I  should  find  him  here,"  said! 
the  lady,  thoughtfully. 

The  druggist  drew  the  book  toward  him,  ran  his, 
eyes  through  the  names  under  the  D's. 

"The  name  is  not  here,"  he  said  at  last,  as  he 
raised  his  glance  and  fixed  it  with  keen  scrutiny  upon 
that  beautiful  face  before  him. 

Madame  tapped  her  foot  impatiently  and  some 
what  nervously  on  the  floor. 

"I  am  greatly  disappointed,"  she  said. 

"You  are  sure  that  you  have  the  correct  name — 
you  have  made  no  mistake?"  the  gentleman  inquired, 
glancing  at  the  card  in  her  hand. 

"Yes;  but  you  can  see  for  yourself,"  and  she 
passed  it  to  him,  with  a  smile. 

It  was  a  common  visiting-card,  yellow,  and  de 
faced  with  age  and  handling,  and  it  bore  the  name  of 
"August  Damon,"  written  with  ink  in  a  fine,  gentle 
manly  hand. 

"Do  you  know  that  your  friend  resides  in  Boston* 
madame?"  the  pharmacist  asked,  as  his  keen  eyes 
fixed  themselves  again  upon  her  countenance. 

"They — used  to;  it — is  some  years  since  I  last 
visited  the  city,  and  it  is  possible  they  have  removed 
to  some  other  place.  They  must  have  done  so,"  she 


#8  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

•concluded,  with  a  sigh,  "or  I  should  surely  have 
found  their  name  in  the  directory." 

"Were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Damon  the  parties  to  whom 
you  gave  your  child,  Mrs.  Marston?" 

The  question  was  very  quietly,  very  politely  put, 
but  it  was  like  the  application  of  a  powerful  galvanic 
battery  to  the  woman  on  the  other  side  of  the 
counter. 

A  shock — a  shiver  ran  through  her  entire  frame. 

She  grew  deadly  white,  and  for  a  moment  seemed 
.ready  to  drop  to  the  floor. 

Then  she  rallied. 

'"Sir!"  she  said,  with  a  haughty  uplifting  of  her 
proud  head. 

"Madame!" 

"I  do  not  understand  you." 

"Did  you  not?  Shall  I  repeat  my  question?"  was 
the  quiet  query. 

She  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"You  have  made  a  mistake,"  the  lady  returned, 
out  her  eyes  were  searching  the  druggist's  face  with 
a  lightning  glance,  while  that  deadly  paleness  again 
overspread  her  own. 

"Nay,  madame,"  was  the  bland  rejoinder;  "I  am 
one  of  the  few  men  in  the  world  who  never  forget 
either  a  face  or  a  name !  Mrs.  Marston,  surely  you 
have  not  forgotten  Doctor  Thomas  Turner  who 

waited  upon  you  at  the House  one  bitter  night 

un  the  winter  of  18 — ." 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  RETROSPECTIVE  GLANCE 

IT  was  indeed  Doctor  Turner,  although  twenty- 
years  or  more  had  changed  him  greatly. 

They  had  given  portliness  to  his  form,  turned  his 
dark-brown  hair  to  a  silvery  whiteness,  and  seamed 
his  face  with  many  a  line  of  thought  and  care. 

He  now  wore,  too,  a  full  beard,  which  was  also 
very  gray,  although  not  as  white  as  his  hair,  while 
the  gold-bowed  spectacles,  which  had  become  a  con 
stant  necessity,  added  to  the  strangeness  of  his  ap 
pearance. 

He  had  given  up  his  practice  some  ten  years~ 
previous,  and  was  now  the  sole  proprietor  of  the 
handsome  drug  store  on  Washington  street,  already 
mentioned. 

But,  although  Doctor  Turner  had  spoken  with: 
the  utmost  confidence  in  addressing  the  lady  before 
him,  charging  her  with  her  identity,  he  was,  never 
theless,  somewhat  staggered  when  she  looked  him 
calmly  in  the  eye  and  replied,  without  a  tremor,  in 
her  full,  rich  tones: 

"You  are  mistaken,  Doctor  Turner — if  that  is, 

69 


70  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

your  name — mine  is  not  'Mrs.  Marston,'  and  never 


was." 


"I  know  that  your  true  name  is  not  Mrs.  Marston 
and  never  was,"  the  physician  replied,  after  a  mo 
ment's  quiet  study  of  his  companion;  "but  you  are, 
nevertheless,  the  woman  whom  I  attended  at  the 

House  on  the  date  I  have  mentioned.  You  are 

very  little  changed,  and  I  could  not  fail  to  recognize 
you  anywhere." 

The  woman's  face  grew  crimson,  then  startlingly 
white  again;  her  eyes  drooped  beneath  his  steady 
gaze,  her  lips  trembled  from  inward  excitement. 

"You  have  a  remarkable  memory,"  she  mur 
mured,  and  stood  confessed  before  him. 

"No  better  than  your  own,  madame,  if  I  had 
-changed  as  little  as  yourself.  Time  has  dealt  far 
less  kindly  with  me.  Not  a  thread  of  your  hair  has 
silvered,  your  color  is  as  fresh,  your  face  as  fair 
;as  on  the  day  of  our  last  meeting.  Pardon  me," 
continued  the  doctor,  with  a  deprecating  gesture, 
"for  reminding  you  so  abruptly  of  the  past,  but  I 
have  never  ceased  to  feel  a  deep  interest  in  the  mys 
terious  case  to  which  I  have  referred,  and  I  could 
mot  refrain  from  renewing  the  acquaintance." 

"With  what  object?"  queried  madame,  with  cold 
dignity. 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  have  any  definite  object  in 
mind,"  responded  the  physician,  suavely;  "possibly 
I  imagined  I  might  be  on  the  brink  of  a  discovery. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  71 

However,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there;  if  you  are 
desirous  of  finding  the  gentleman  who  adopted  your 
child,  it  may  be  that  I  can  assist  you,  if,  after  you. 
confide  in  me  your  reasons  for  seeking  him,  I  shall 
deem  it  advisable." 

Mrs.  Marston  started  slightly  at  this. 

"Do  you  know  August  Damon?"  she  asked. 

Doctor  Turner  smiled. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "did  you  imagine  that  the 
gerri^cman  who  took  your  babe  would  be  any  less 
cautious  than  yourself  in  such  a  transaction?  You 
were  known  as  Mrs.  Marston,  but  frankly  confessed 
that  the  name  was  an  assumed  one.  Your  object 
was  to  find  the  child  a  good  home  and  then  drop, 
out  of  sight  altogether,  so  that  those  who  took  it 
should  never  be  able  to  identify  you  afterward.  Did. 
you  suppose  it  was  to  be  a  one-sided  affair,  that  you. 
were  to  have  all  the  power  and  advantage  in  your 
own  hands? — that  if  you  withheld  your  true  name 
they  would  give  you  theirs?" 

Mrs.  Marston,  as  we  must  still  call  her,  flushed 
hotly. 

"Then  Damon  was  not  the  true  surname  of  these 
people,"  she  said,  in  a  crestfallen  tone. 

"No,  madame." 

"What  was  it?" 

Doctor  Turner  did  not  reply  for  a  moment. 

Finally  he  said: 

"Mrs.   Marston,  pray  do  not  let  me  keep  you  • 


72  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

standing;  come  into  my  private  office  and  be  seated; 
we  can  converse  much  more  comfortably  there  and 
be  free  from  intrusion,  if  customers  should  come  in." 

Mrs.  Marston  shivered  slightly,  although  the  day 
was  an  unusually  warm  one.  She  did  not  wish  to 
talk  over  the  long-buried  past,  and  this  recognition 
had  been  a  bitter  blow  to  her;  but  her  curiosity  re 
garding  her  child's  fate  was  so  great  that  she  could 
not  resist  the  physician's  invitation,  and  she  followed 
him  to  a  small  room  beautifully  fitted  up  as  a  con 
sulting  office,  at  the  rear  of  the  store. 

Doctor  Turner  politely  handed  her  a  luxurious 
chair,  and  then  seated  himself  opposite  her. 

"It  is  doubtless  a  great  surprise  to  you  to  find  me 
situated  as  I  am,"  the  physician  remarked,  by  way 
of  opening  the  conversation;  "but  some  years  ago  my 
health  gave  out  under  the  strain  of  a  large  and  con 
stantly  increasing  practice,  and  I  was  forced  to 
relinquish  it,  although  I  still  receive  some  office  pa 
tients." 

Mrs.  Marston  merely  bowed  in  reply  to  this  in 
formation,  her  manner  indicating  that  she  cared 
very  little  about  Doctor  Turner's  personal  history. 

She  glanced  at  August  Damon's  card,  which  she 
had  recovered  when  Doctor  Turner  relinquished  it. 

"You  were  going  to  tell  me  the  real  name  of  the 
person  whom  this  card  represents,  I  believe,"  she 
said. 

The  druggist  smiled,  yet  bit  his  lip  with  vexation 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  73 

at  himself  for  having  intruded  his  own  affairs  upon 
her,  even  for  the  purpose  of  making  her  feel  more 
at  her  ease.  He  might  have  spared  himself  that 
trouble. 

"That  will  depend  entirely  upon  your  motive  in 
seeking  them,"  he  replied. 

Mrs.  Marston  flushed  again. 

She  was  an  exceedingly  high-spirited  woman,  one 
could  perceive  at  a  glance,  and  it  galled  her  beyond 
expression  to  have  any  one  make  conditions  for  her 
like  this. 

"How  can  it  matter  to  you  what  my  motives  are?" 
she  demanded,  imperiously. 

"A  physician  has  no  right  to  betray  the  confidence 
of  his  patients,"  calmly  responded  the  doctor;  "and 
unless  you  have  some  urgent  reason  for  your  re 
quest,  I  shall  not  feel  at  liberty  to  give  you  the  in 
formation  you  desire." 

"Are  you  their  physician?" 

"I  was,  for  a  time.  I  was  first  called  to  the  child 
not  three  days  after  it  had  been  given  to  them." 

"How  could  you  tell  that  it  was  the  same  child? 
Babes  of  that  age  look  much  alike." 

"Do  you  suppose  that  a  man  in  my  profession 
could  be  so  lacking  in  observation  as  not  to  recog 
nize  a  babe  at  whose  birth  he  had  officiated,  and  in 
which  so  much  of  unusual  interest  seemed  to  cen 
ter?"  queried  Doctor  Turner,  with  a  slight  curl  of 
his  lips.  "I  knew  her  the  moment  I  saw  her;  but 


74  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

they  do  not  know,  to  this  day,  that  I  had  even  a  sus 
picion  that  she  was  not  their  own  flesh  and  blood." 

"You  never  told  them?"  said  Mrs.  Marston, 
quickly. 

"Madame,"  returned  the  gentleman,  with  dignity, 
"need  I  remind  you  again  that  an  honorable  physi 
cian  never  betrays  the  confidence  of  his  patients. 
You  confided  in  me  to  a  certain  extent,  and  I  knew 
that  you  wished  to  drop  entirely  out  of  existence,  as 
far  as  your  relations  with  the  child  and  its  adopted 
parents  were  concerned.  I  knew  also  that  they 
wished  its  adoption  to  remain  a  secret — consequently 
my  lips  were  sealed." 

The  lady's  eyes  drooped  and  all  the  haughtiness 
vanished  at  these  words. 

"Thank  you,  Doctor  Turner,  for  your  considera 
tion  for  me,  and  I  am  glad,  too,  that  one  so  con 
scientious  has  been  intrusted  with  the  care  of  the 
child,"  she  said,  earnestly.  "Is — she  still  living?" 

"Yes,  and  as  beautiful  a  young  lady  as  any  one 
would  wish  to  see." 

Mrs.  Marston's  face  clouded,  and  a  sigh  escaped 
her  red  lips.  Her  companion  thought  it  one  of  re 
gret  and  yearning. 

"Has  she  been  well  reared?  Has  she  had  ad 
vantages?" 

"The  very  best  that  money  could  procure  or  fond 
est  affection  could  suggest.  Mr.  August — ah — 
Damon "  the  doctor  caught  himself  just  in  sea- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  75 

son,  for  the  gentleman's  true  name  had  almost  es 
caped  him,  "has  become  a  rich  man,  and  no  parents 
could  have  done  more  for  the  welfare  of  their  own 
child  then  they  have  done  for  yours." 

"Are  there  other  children?" 

"No;  that  is,  they  have  none  of  their  own,  though 
I  believe  they  have  been  giving  a  poor  boy  of  great 
promise  a  home  and  an  education  during  the  last 
eight  or  ten  years." 

"Does  she — the  daughter — know  that  she  is  an 
adopted  child?"  Mrs.  Marston  inquired. 

"I  cannot  say  positively  as  to  that,"  Doctor  Tur 
ner  replied.  "She  did  not  know  it  a  few  years  ago, 
and  I  imagine  she  has  never  been  told.  I  hope  not, 
at  all  events;  it  would  be  better  for  her  never  to 
know  it,"  he  concluded,  with  significant  emphasis. 

"Yes,"  returned  his  companion,  "I  suppose  it 
would.  But  you  have  not  yet  told  me  the  name." 

"And  you  have  not  told  me  your  motive  in  wish 
ing  to  learn  it." 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  have  any  special  motive, 
other  than  a  curiosity  and  a  natural  desire  to  know 
how  my  child  is  living,  and  how  life  has  dealt  with 
her,"  the  lady  answered,  musingly.  "I  was  traveling 
this  summer  and  thought  I  would  take  Boston  in  on 
my  route,  ascertain,  if  I  could,  the  residence  of  the 
people  to  whom  my  babe  had  been  given,  and  per 
haps  obtain  a  glimpse  of  her." 

"That  is  your  only  motive,  your  only  reason?" 


76  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

the  doctor  asked,  bending  a  searching  glance  upon 
her  handsome  face. 

"It  is." 

"Then  pardon  me,  madame,  if  I  tell  you  that  I 
do  not  consider  it  of  sufficient  importance  to  gratify 
your  desire,"  Doctor  Turner  returned,  gravely.  "I 
can  understand  and  sympathize  with  you — it  is  but 
natural  that  a  mother  should  yearn  for  her  child, 
even  after  a  separation  of  more  than  twenty  years; 
but  I  know  well  enough  that  Mr.  Damon  would 
not  have  withheld  his  true  name  from  you  unless  he 
desired  to  cut  you  off  from  all  future  knowledge  of 
the  child  whom  you  had  given  him.  You  also  wished 
to  drop  entirely  out  of  their  orbit,  to  leave  no  trace 
by  which  they  could  ever  find  you,  to  learn  the  secret 
you  were  so  careful  to  preserve,  and  they  have  only 
aided  you  by  concealing  their  own  identity.  If  you 
should  put  yourself  in  their  way  and  try  to  see  their 
daughter,  they  could  not  fail  to  recognize  you,  as  I 
have  done,  and  it  would  greatly  disturb  their  peace; 
while  if  anything  should  occur  to  arouse  the  young 
lady's  suspicions  that  she  does  not  really  belong  to 
the  parents  whom  she  so  fondly  loves,  I  am  sure  it 
would  cause  her  a  great  deal  of  unhappiness,  while 
it  might  result  in  inquiries  and  discoveries  that  would 
be  embarrassing  to  yourself." 

Mrs.  Marston  sat  proudly  erect  at  this,  her  eyes 
flashing  warningly. 

"Such  inquiries  might  be  embarrassing,  it  is  true, 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  77 

but  they  could  result  in  nothing  that  would  bring 
discredit  upon  either  the  child  or  me,"  she  said,  with 
conscious  dignity. 

"I  do  not  question  that,  madame,  yet  it  would 
seem  to  be  the  wiser  course  to  let  everything  rest 
just  as  it  is,"  said  the  physician,  thoughtfully. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  responded  his  compan 
ion,  with  a  sigh,  "but  I  would  like  to  see  her." 

"Allow  me  to  ask,  Mrs.  Marston,"  Doctor  Tur 
ner  resumed,  after  a  minute  of  silence,  "is  your  hus 
band  still  living?" 

The  woman  flushed,  a  startled,  painful  crimson, 
to  her  brow;  then  she  straightened  herself  haughtily. 

"Yes,  my  husband  is  living,"  she  icily  replied. 

"And,  excuse  me,  but  having  been  your  medical 
attendant,  I  feel  something  of  an  interest  in  the  case 
— how  was  he  affected  by  the — the  loss  of  his  child  ?" 

Doctor  Turner  knew  that  he  was  trespassing  on 
dangerous  ground,  but,  under  the  circumstances,  he 
felt  that  he  might  be  pardoned  for  asking  the  ques 
tion. 

"I  do  not  feel  that  you  have  a  right  to  interrogate 
me  thus,"  Mrs.  Marston  responded,  with  some  ex 
citement,  "nevertheless,  I  am  somewhat  in  your 
power,  and ' 

"Madame,"  interrupted  the  physician,  with  an 
air  of  pride,  "you  need  not  go  on;  if  a  little  bit  of 
your  life  is  in  my  keeping,  I  assure  you  it  is  in  the 
keeping  of  a  conscientious  man.  Whatever  I  may 


78  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

possess  regarding  any  patient,  I  could  never  use  it 
in  a  dishonorable  way." 

"I  beg  your  pardon, "  his  companion  said,  instantly 
disarmed  and  secretly  ashamed  of  her  sudden  anger. 
"I  am  very  quick,  and  you  touched  a  sensitive  nerve. 
Doctor  Turner,  my  husband  never  knew  of  the  birth 
of  that  child,  and  he  can  never  know  of  it. 

"You  look  at  me  with  horror,"  she  proceeded 
hastily,  as  she  met  his  astonished  gaze,  "as  if  you 
imagine  that  I  must  have  been  guilty  of  some  great 
crime;  but  I  have  not,  unless  giving  away  my  babe 
was  one.  I  was  a  lawful  wife,  as  I  convinced  you 
at  the  time,  and  the  child  had  honorable  birth,  but 
there  were  reasons  which  made  it  absolutely  neces 
sary  that  I  should  conceal  my  maternity  from  every 
one  who  knew  me.  I  did,  from  all  but  my  sister, 
who  has  since  died." 

"Ah !  then  the  lady  who  was  with  you  at  the  time 
was  your  sister.  I  could  not  believe  her  to  be  simply 
a  maid,"  the  doctor  interposed. 

Mrs.  Marston  bit  her  lips  with  vexation  at  hav 
ing  thus  thoughtlessly  committed  herself  even  in  so 
small  a  point. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  after  considering  a  moment,  "she 
alone  knew  my  secret,  and  I  believed  it  safe  from 
all  the  world  until  I  stumbled  upon  you  to-day." 

"It  is  safe  even  now,"  the  physician  hastened  to 
assure  her.  "Believe  me,  I  shall  never  betray  it — 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  79 

you  may  set  your  heart  wholly  at  rest  upon  that 
point." 

"Thank  you — I  am  very  grateful  for  your  past 
silence,  Doctor  Turner,  and  your  assurance  of  future 
secrecy.  I  am  not  a  heartless  woman,  nor  devoid  of 
maternal  affection,"  she  went  on,  her  lips  quivering 
painfully.  "I  could  have  loved  my  baby  as  fondly 
as  any  mother  ever  loved  her  child,  if  I  had  been  al 
lowed  to  open  my  heart  to  her;  but  I  could  not.  I 
had  to  steel  it  against  her.  I  never  dared  even  to 
allow  myself  to  kiss  her  until  the  moment  they  took 
her  away — for  fear  that  I  should  begin  to  love  her 
and  refuse  to  part  with  her.  I  cannot  tell  you  why — 
I  can  never  explain  it  to  any  living  being.  I  am 
hedged — I  have  always  been  hedged  about  by  cir 
cumstances  that  made  it  impossible,  and  as  long  as 
I  live  I  must  carry  the  secret  locked  within  my  own 
heart." 

She  stopped  for  a  moment,  overcome  by  the  sad 
memories  and  emotions  which  this  retrospective 
glance  aroused,  while  the  good  doctor  felt  more  gen 
uine  sympathy  than  he  had  ever  experienced  for  her 
over  that  mysterious  occurrence  so  many  years  ago. 

"I  will  try  to  be  content  with  what  you  have  told 
me  to-day,"  she  resumed,  presently,  "although  it 
was  my  intention,  when  I  came  here,  to  see  for  my 
self  how  my  child  had  been  reared.  I  am  glad  to 
know  that  she  has  been  tenderly  shielded  by  parental 
love — that  life  has  been  made  bright  and  beautiful 


80  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

for  her;  may  it  ever  be  so,  and  perhaps,  some  time, 
in  the  great  future,  where  there  can  be  no  secrets,  I 
may  be  allowed  to  recognize  and  love  the  daughter 
which  stern  fate  decreed  I  could  not  have  in  this 
life." 

Tears  actually  arose  to  the  physician's  eyes  at  this 
little  glimpse  of  the  innermost  sanctuary  of  the  beau 
tiful  woman's  heart;  but  he  marveled  more  than 
ever  at  the  terrible  secret  which  must  have  well-nigh 
blighted  her  early  life. 

She  looked  up,  caught  his  sympathetic  glance,  and 
was  instantly  the  proud,  self-possessed  woman  of  the 
world  again. 

"And  now,  Doctor  Turner,"  she  said,  rising  and 
drawing  her  elegant  lace  mantle  about  her  shapely 
shoulders.  "I  trust  we  may  never  meet  again.  If 
chance  should  throw  us  together  in  the  presence  of 
others,  I  beg,  as  a  personal  favor,  that  you  will  not 
recognize  me  without  a  formal  introduction." 

"I  will  not,  madame;  and  for  the  sake  of  your 
peace  of  mind,  I,  too,  hope  that  our  paths  may  never 
again  cross,"  he  replied. 

He  accompanied  her  to  the  door,  where  they 
bowed  politely  and  formally  to  each  other,  and  then 
the  handsome  woman  swept  out  upon  the  street,  as 
composed  and  self-possessed  as  if  she  had  merely 
been  purchasing  some  trifling  article  for  the  toilet, 
instead  of  rolling  away  the  stone  from  a  sepulcher 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  81 

where,  for  more  than  twenty  years,  a  corroding  se 
cret  had  lain  concealed. 

Doctor  Turner  went  back  to  his  private  office, 
where  he  sat  a  long  time,  musing  over  the  wonderful 
mystery  which  had  stood  the  test  of  nearly  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  and  wondering  if  he  should  ever  learn 
the  solution  to  it. 

"It  was  the  most  perplexing,  yet  romantic,  inci 
dent  connected  with  my  whole  life  as  a  physician,"" 
he  murmured.  "If  I  could  but  get  at  the  inside  his 
tory  of  it  I  could  write  a  book  worth  reading. 

"It  was  almost  too  bad,"  he  added,  some  minutes 
afterward,  "not  to  tell  her  about  Huntress — it  is 
possible  no  harm  would  have  resulted  from  the 
knowledge;  but  if  there  had  I  should  have  blamed 
myself.  It  was  better  not." 

He  watched  the  passers  in  the  street  for  several 
days,  hoping  to  get  another  glimpse  at  his  visitor. 

But  he  did  not — he  never  saw  her  again. 


GEOFFREY  FINDS  A  RELIC 

GEOFFREY  HUNTRESS  arrived  in  Santa  Fe  late 
one  evening,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  driving  storm, 
about  a  week  after  parting  from  Jack  and  Margery 
Henly. 

He  was  glad  to  seek  shelter  in  the  nearest  public 
house,  which  proved  to  be  an  adobe,  and  was  kept 
by  a  good-natured  Spaniard  and  his  wife,  both  of 
whom  could  speak  English  passably  well. 

Everything  was  in  the  most  primitive  style,  yet 
comfortable,  and  the  house  was  a  most  acceptable 
refuge  from  the  raging  tempest  without. 

Geoffrey  slept  well,  and  awoke  to  find  a  bright, 
beautiful  morning  breaking,  and  all  nature  fresh  and 
attractive  in  its  newly  washed  attire. 

He  ate  heartily  of  the  savory  breakfast  that  had 
been  prepared  for  him,  and  then  started  forth  in 
search  of  the  post-office  to  learn  what  he  could  re 
garding  the  history  of  Lock  Box  43. 

He  was  somewhat  disappointed  to  find  that  the 
postmaster  was  a  man  only  about  thirty-five  years  of 

82 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  83 

age,  and,  upon  inquiry,  learned  that  he  had  served 
in  that  capacity  not  more  than  five  or  six  years. 

Of  course,  he  knew  at  once  that  he  could  tell  him 
nothing  that  he  wished  to  know,  and  he  began  to  fear 
that  his  journey  hither  had  been  all  for  naught. 

"Who  was  postmaster  here  before  you  received 
your  appointment?"  he  inquired,  after  making  some 
general  talk  about  the  city. 

"Old  Abe  Brown,  sir,  and  I  only  hope  I  may  be  as 
lucky  as  he  was;  he  held  it  for  more'n  fifteen  years." 

Geoffrey  felt  his  courage  rise  at  this  information. 

If  he  could  only  find  old  Abe  Brown,  doubtless  he 
could  tell  him  something  interesting  about  Lock 
Box  43. 

"Is  he  living?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  hale  and  hearty,  too,"  and  going  to 
the  door,  the  obliging  postmaster  pointed  out  the 
rude  dwelling  which  his  predecessor  occupied. 

Geoffrey  at  once  bent  his  steps  thither,  and  was 
soon  knocking  at  Mr.  Brown's  door. 

"Come  in,"  was  the  somewhat  gruff,  but  hearty 
invitation,  and  pushing  open  the  door,  which  was 
already  ajar,  Geoffrey  saw  an  old  man  of  perhaps 
sixty  seated  on  a  rude  bench,  weaving  hats  from  a 
bundle  of  tough  grass  that  lay  beside  him,  while  his 
wife,  a  woman  somewhat  younger,  sat  near  him, 
sewing  bands  around  and  putting  coarse  linings  into 
a  pile  of  finished  hats. 

"Come  in,  stranger,  come  in!"  repeated  the  man, 


84-  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

as  Geoffrey  paused  upon  the  threshold;  "don't  stand 
on  ceremony,  'cause  we  can't,  for  we've  got  to  get 
this  case  of  hats  off  before  dinner,  and  we'll  have 
to  work  right  smart  to  do  it,  too.  Have  a  chair,  sir; 
guess,  though,  you  don't  belong  in  these  parts,"  and 
the  old  man  gave  the  younger  one  a  searching  glance 
from  a  pair  of  keen  eyes  that  gleamed  beneath  his 
shaggy,  overhanging  brows. 

"No,  sir,  I  do  not  belong  here;  I  am  a  stranger," 
Geoffrey  answered,  as  he  entered  the  room  and  took 
the  chair  indicated.  "I  was  directed  hither  to  make 
inquiries  regarding  some  circumstances  connected 
with  your  services  as  postmaster  several  years  ago." 

"Eh!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Brown,  in  an  astonished 
tone,  and  suspending  his  employment  to  eye  his  vis 
itor  with  an  indignant  glance,  while  his  wife  turned 
a  pale,  startled  face  to  him. 

Geoffrey  smiled,  as  he  realized  that  they  imagined 
he  had  come  in  an  official  capacity. 

"My  inquiries  are  of  a  strictly  private  nature,  and 
relate  to  a  gentleman  for  whom  I  am  searching," 
he  explained  to  relieve  their  anxiety. 

"All  right;  fire  away  then,  lad,"  returned  Mr. 
Brown,  coolly  resuming  his  work,  "I  thought  if  them 
chaps  at  Washington  had  sent  any  one  down  here 
at  this  late  day  to  rake  over  old  coals  it  was  mighty 
queer,  for  there  wasn't  a  single  dis-crip-ancy  from 
the  time  I  went  into  the  office  till  I  came  out.  Old 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  85 

Abe  Brown  is  honest  if  he  ain't  handsome,"  he  con 
cluded,  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,  sir,"  Geoffrey  replied,  with  a 
quiet  laugh,  "but  I  wish  to  ask  you  if  you  remember 
a  man  who  hired  Lock  Box  43  for  several  years  in 
succession  during  your  term,  and  who  had  his  letters, 
or,  at  least,  some  of  them,  directed  simply  with  that 
inscription?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  do  remember  him — a  tall,  handsome 
chap,  with  blue  eyes,  and  brown  hair,  and  he  had  the 
finest  beard  I  ever  saw  on  a  man,  the  first  time  I  saw 
him;  he  had  it  all  shaved  off,  though,  after  a  while, 
I  say,  stranger,  I  reckon  he  must  have  been  some 
thing  to  you,  for  I'm  bless'd  if  you  don't  look  like 
him!" 

The  man  dropped  his  hat  upon  this  discovery,  and 
leaned  forward  for  a  better  view  of  Geoffrey. 

"Go  on,  if  you  please,"  the  young  man  said, 
briefly. 

"Well,  as  I  said,  I  remember  him:  I  don't  often 
forget  anybody  that  I've  ever  had  any  dealings 
with,"  Mr.  Brown  resumed.  "He  was  a  generous 
fellow,  too;  had  plenty  of  money,  and  scattered  it 
right  and  left  like  a  prince.  It  was  a  curious  con 
ceit,  though,  his  having  his  letters  sent  just  to  the 
box — some  of  'em;  they  didn't  all  come  that  way." 

"No?"  cried  Geoffrey,  eagerly.  "To  whom  were 
they  directed?  What  was  his  name?" 

"Well,  now,"  said  the  old  man,  again  laying  down 


86  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

his  hat,  and  scratching  his  head  meditatively.  "I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  you'd  got  me  this  time.  I'm 
pretty  good  at  spotting  a  face,  but  when  it  comes  to 
names  and  figures — unless  somebody  happens  to  be 
owing  me" — he  interposed,  with  a  sly  smile,  "I  don't 
amount  to  much.  'Pears  to  me,  though,  his  first 
name  was  William — William — hum  !  I  don't  know 
— William  something;  and  there  was  a  general  or 
captain — I  can't  remember  which — tacked  on  to  it 
besides." 

"Was  his  last  name  Dale,  do  you  think?"  Geof 
frey  asked. 

Mr.  Brown  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"I  couldn't  swear  'twas,  or  'twasn't,"  he  said. 
"Somehow,  that  don't  strike  me  as  sounding  just 
natural — I've  a  notion  there  was  more  to  it." 

"I  am  very  anxious  to  know  it,  and  would  be  will 
ing  to  give  a  great  deal  to  be  sure  of  it.  Could  you 
find  out  in  any  way  what  it  was?"  the  young  man  in 
quired,  anxiously. 

"I  don't  believe  there's  a  single  soul  in  Santa  Fe 
to-day  who  was  here  as  long  ago  as  that,  except  my 
wife  here.  Maria,  do  you  remember  that  handsome 
gentleman  who  used  to  have  Lock  Box  43  ?"  the  old 
man  asked,  turning  to  his  wife. 

"I  used  to  see  him  now  and  then  when  I  helped 
you,  in  the  office,  but  I've  forgotten  his  name,  if  I 
ever  heard  it,"  the  woman  replied,  in  a  quiet  tone. 
"But,"  she  added,  a  moment  later,  as  if  some  thought 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  87 

had  suddenly  occurred  to  her,  "didn't  you  find  some 
thing  once  that  he  lost?" 

"LorM  yes;  so  I  did.  But  I'd  never  thought  of  it 
again  if  you  hadn't  mentioned  it,  and  there's  some 
thing  marked  on  it,  too.  Perhaps  that'll  tell  the 
young  man  what  he  wants  to  know." 

Mr.  Brown  laid  down  his  work,  and  rising,  turned 
toward  an  old-fashioned  secretary  that  stood  in  one 
corner  of  the  room. 

But  he  suddenly  stopped,  and  looked  searchingly 
at  Geoffrey. 

"I  hope,  if  you  find  out  what  you  want  to  know 
here,  it  ain't  going  to  get  the  gentleman  into  any 
trouble,"  he  said;  "he  was  a  god  friend  to  me,  and 
I  should  hate  to  do  him  an  ill  turn." 

"You  need  not  fear,"  Geoffrey  answered,  thinking 
it  best  to  deal  frankly  with  these  honest  people;  "the 
man  was  my  father — at  least,  I  have  strong  reasons 
for  believing  so;  he  disappeared  several  years  ago, 
and  my  object  in  coming  to  you  is  simply  to  try  to 
get  some  clew  that  will  help  me  to  trace  him." 

"I'm  afraid,  sir,  you've  come  to  a  poor  place  to 
find  out  very  much,"  Mr.  Brown  remarked,  and  ap 
parently  satisfied  with  his  visitor's  explanation. 

He  proceeded  to  the  secretary,  opened  one  of  its 
drawers,  and  took  an  old  leather  wallet  from  it. 

Unstrapping  this,  he  laid  it  open  before  him,  and 
after  searching  some  time  in  its  various  pockets,  he 
drew  forth  something  wrapped  in  brown  paper. 


.bS  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

This  he  carried  to  Geoffrey,  and  laid  it  in  his  hand. 

"There  you  have  it,  and  it's  the  best  I  can  do  for 
you,"  he  said. 

The  young  man  quickly  removed  the  paper,  and 
found  a  portion  of  a  golden  charm  or  emblem;  in 
the  form  of  a  knight-templar's  cross;  very  hand 
somely  enameled  and  engraven. 

It  had  been  broken  diagonally 
across,  the  left  and  lower  arms  com 
prising  the  portion  which  the  post 
master  had  found. 

Geoffrey  turned  it  over  and  found 
the  name  "William" — all  but  the  last  letter — en 
graved  on  the  back,  something  after  the  fashion  of 
the  accompanying  diagram. 

The  "m,"  and  probably  the  surname  of  the  owner 
was  to  be  found  on  the  other  half  of  the  cross,  wher 
ever  that  might  be. 

The  young  man  sighed  wearily,  for  if  this  was  all 
the  information  which  he  was  to  obtain  from  his  visit 
to  Santa  Fe,  he  would  be  as  much  in  the  dark  as 
ever. 

"Where  did  you  find  this?"  he  asked,  at  length, 
turning  to  Mr.  Brown. 

"On  the  floor,  just  under  his  box." 

"Was  he  in  the  habit  of  wearing  an  emblem  of 
.this  kind?" 

"Yes,  sir;  he  had  a  fine  one  on  his  watch-chain,  but 
it  wasn't  like  that,"  said  Mr.  Brown. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  89 

"Then  how  do  you  know  that  he  lost  this?  It 
might  have  belonged  to  some  one  else." 

"No;  I  am  sure  it  was  his,  for  I  found  it  just  after 
he'd  been  into  the  office  to  look  after  his  letters,  and 
there  hadn't  been  another  soul  in  the  room  for  nigh 
an  hour.  I  reckon  it  was  one  of  them  things  like 
what  he  wore,  that  had  been  broken,  and  he  tucked 
it  into  his  pocket  and  it  fell  out  when  he  took  out  his 
keys  to  unlock  his  box,"  Mr.  Brown  explained. 

"That  might  have  been  the  way  of  it,"  Geoffrey 
said,  thoughtfully. 

"I  went  to  the  door  to  call  him  back,"  the  old 
gentleman  continued;  "but  he'd  got  out  of  sight,  so  I 
put  it  away,  thinking  I'd  give  it  to  him  the  next  time 
he  came,  and  if  you'll  believe  it,  I've  never  set  eyes 
on  him  from  that  day  to  this." 

"Did  he  never  come  again?"  Geoffrey  asked,  sur 
prised. 

"Yes,  twice,  though  there  was  a  good  while  be 
tween;  but,  as  it  chanced,  I  was  away  both  times,  and 
of  course  the  boy  I  hired  to  help  me  and  take  my 
place  at  such  times — the  same  one  that's  there  now — 
didn't  know  him.  The  last  visit  he  made  he  gave  up 
his  keys." 

"How  long  ago  was  that?" 

"That  must  have  been  as  many  as  fifteen  years 
ago,  I  should  say;  I  can't  just  remember,  though," 
replied  Mr.  Brown. 

Geoffrey  reasoned  that  probably  his  father  had 


90  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

visited  the  place  while  on  his  way  back  from  Cali 
fornia,  after  he  had  been  to  make  inquiries  regard 
ing  his  own  mysterious  disappearance,  and  having 
despaired  of  ever  gaining  any  knowledge  of  him 
through  Lock  Box  43,  had  surrendered  his  keys. 

"Did  he  ever  reside  here  in  Santa  Fe?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  think  he  did,  sir — he  always  looked  as 
if  he  came  from  a  distance,  and  he  didn't  come  reg 
ular,  either.  I  used  to  think  he  was  up  among  the 
mines  in  the  mountains." 

"Did  he  receive  many  letters  through  this  office?" 

"At  first  he  did,  but  not  more'n  three  or  four  the 
last  year  or  two,  and  I  was  to  let  them  lay  until 
they  were  come  for.  When  he  come  last  he  said  he 
was  goin'  to  leave  this  country  altogether." 

"It  is  very  strange,"  mused  Geoffrey,  as  he  sat 
turning  over  that  little  piece  of  gold  and  enamel. 

"If  it  could  but  speak,"  he  thought,  "all  my  trouble 
and  search  would  be  over." 

"Will  you  sell  me  this  little  relic?"  he  asked,  at 
last,  turning  to  the  ex-postmaster. 

"Bless  you !  no,  sir.  I  shouldn't  think  of  selling  it 
to  anybody;  but  if  you're  that  man's  son,  as  you  say, 
it's  yours  by  right,  and  you  can  have  it  and  welcome." 

Geoffrey  thanked  the  honest  old  gentleman  heart 
ily  for  it  and  his  kindness  in  answering  his  inquiries, 
and  then  arose  to  take  his  leave. 

He  picked  up  one  of  the  hats  that  Mrs.  Brown 
had  just  completed,  asking  if  she  woulcfmake  him 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  91 

one  and  have  it  ready  by  the  time  he  got  around  to 
Santa  Fe  again. 

She  said  she  would,  and  at  his  request  named  the 
price. 

Geoffrey  dropped  a  golden  coin  into  her  hand,  re 
marking,  with  a  smile,  that  she  could  give  him  the 
change  when  he  came  for  the  hat,  or  if  he  didn't 
come  by  the  end  of  six  weeks  she  would  be  entitled 
to  the  whole  of  it.  He  took  this  way  to  make  these 
good  people  a  little  present  without  wounding  their 
feelings,  for  he  had  no  intention  of  ever  returning  to 
Santa  Fe. 

He  was  very  much  depressed  by  his  failure  to  ob 
tain  any  definite  information  regarding  his  father, 
and  he  found  it  hard  to  be  reconciled  to  the  fact  that 
the  ex-postmaster  could  not  remember  the  name 
which  it  was  so  important  he  should  learn. 

He  attached  very  little  significance  to  the  finding 
of  the  broken  cross,  for  it  proved  nothing;  still  he 
put  it  carefully  away,  resolving  to  keep  it  as  a  curious 
relic. 

But  it  was  destined,  insignificant  as  it  seemed,  to 
play  an  important  part  in  the  chain  of  evidence  that 
was  eventually  to  prove  his  identity. 

It  was  the  middle  of  September  when  he  reached 
Saratoga  again,  where  he  found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hunt 
ress  and  Gladys,  all  impatient  over  his  long  absence, 
and  overjoyed  at  his  return.  They  had  remained 


92  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

there  far  beyond  the  date  they  had  intended,  and 
they  had  only  waited  for  his  coming  to  go  home. 

They  left  immediately  and  arrived  in  Brooklyn 
the  twentieth  of  the  month,  and  were  all  delighted 
to  be  beneath  their  own  "vine  and  fig  tree"  once 
more. 

When  Geoffrey  told  Mr.  Huntress  how  fruitless 
had  been  his  search,  except  for  what  he  had  learned 
from  the  Henlys,  he  replied,  as  he  laid  his  hand 
affectionately  on  the  young  man's  shoulder: 

"For  your  sake,  Geoff,  I  am  sorry,  for  I  know 
that  you  are  sensitive  regarding  the  subject  of  your 
parentage;  but  for  my  part,  my  boy,  I  am  content, 
for  I  am  free  to  own  that  I  should  feel  a  trifle  jeal 
ous  of  any  other  man  who  should  claim  you  and 
occupy  the  place  of  a  father  toward  you." 

All  this  was  very  pleasant  to  Geoffrey,  but  he 
knew  that  nothing  would  ever  satisfy  him  until  he 
could  learn  the  whole  secret;  and  he  was  now  con 
vinced  that  there  was  a  carefully  guarded  secret  re 
garding  his  birth. 

The  week  following  the  return  of  the  family  to 
Brooklyn,  Mr.  Huntress  came  home  from  his  office 
somewhat  earlier  than  usual,  and  drawing  Geoffrey 
into  the  library,  he  said: 

"Geoff,  you  have  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about 
business  this  summer;  how  would  you  like  to  get  into 
something  right  away?" 

The  young  man's  face  was  instantly  all  aglow. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  93 

"First  rate,"  he  replied,  eagerly.  "I  don't  care 
how  soon  I  begin  to  do  something  for  myself.  I've 
been  an  idler  long  enough." 

4  'An  idler !'  good  gracious !  Geoff,  I  wonder  what 
your  idea  of  work  is,  if  you  have  been  idle  during 
the  last  four  years  I"  exclaimed  Mr.  Huntress,  with 
elevated  brows. 

"Well,  I  mean  that  I've  been  dependent  long 
enough,"  Geoffrey  corrected. 

"Now,  my  boy,  you  couldn't  hurt  me  worse  than 
to  talk  like  that.  I  have  been  paid  a  dozen  times 
over,  for  all  you  have  cost  me,  in  the  pride  I've  taken 
in  you,"  his  friend  replied,  reproachfully. 

"My  debt  is  a  heavy  one  all  the  same,  Uncle  Au 
gust — one  that  I  can  never  pay — though  I  shall  never 
cease  to  be  grateful  for  your  kindness.  But  about 
this  business  prospect,  what  is  it?" 

"Well,  you  see,  the  firm  wants  me  to  go  to  Eu 
rope,"  began  Mr.  Huntress,  "to  look  after  some  of 
our  interest  there,  which  have  been  causing  us  some 
anxiety  of  late;  but  I  have  a  perfect  horror  of  the 
sea,  and  can't  make  up  my  mind  to  take  the  voyage. 
No  one  else  can  be  spared,  and  so,  if  I  cannot  get  a 
substitute,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  screw  my  cour 
age  up  to  it  somehow.  Now,  any  man  of  ordinary 
intelligence  can  transact  the  business — the  chief 
requisites  are  energy,  honesty,  and  interest — and  I 
want  you  to  go  in  any  place,  Geoff.  Your  business 


94  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

career  and  your  salary  shall  commence  from  the  mo 
ment  you  give  me  your  decision." 

Geoffrey  was  all  enthusiasm  at  the  proposition, 
most  delightful  to  him  both  as  regarded  business 
and  the  European  trip,  which  had  always  been  a 
coveted  pleasure. 

"I  should  like  the  trip,  and  more  than  all,  I  should 
like  the  business,  if  you  think  me  competent  to  trans 
act  it,"  he  said.  "Here  I  have  been  racking  my 
brains  all  summer  to  try  to  think  of  something  to 
set  myself  about,  and  now  it  comes  to  me  without 
an  effort." 

"You'll  find  that  it  will  require  effort  enough  be 
fore  you  get  through,"  returned  Mr.  Huntress,  smil 
ing;  "but  it  is  a  great  relief  to  my  mind  to  have  you 
willing  to  undertake  it.  The  only  drawback,"  he 
added,  growing  serious,  "is  that  Gladys  may  object 
to  your  running  off  in  this  unceremonious  style,  and 
for  such  a  long  trip;  it  would  take  five  or  six  months 
to  do  all  we  want  done." 

Geoffrey's  face  fell  at  this. 

In  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment  over  having 
some  real  business,  he  had  not  thought  of  this  sepa 
ration,  and  he  knew  well  enough  that  Gladys  would 
be  very  much  opposed  to  it. 

"True,"  he  began,  and  then  stopped. 

"Gladys  will  surely  oppose  it  with  all  her  will," 
said  Mr.  Huntress,  observing  him  closely. 

Geoffrey  made  no  reply,  he  was  schooling  him- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  95 

self  to  do  his  duty.  He  believed  that  he  had  no  right 
to  refuse  this  golden  opportunity. 

"I  wonder,"  mused  Mr.  Huntress,  a  sly  smile 
curling  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  "how  it  would  do 
to  let  Gladys  go  with  you ;  she  has  always  been  sigh 
ing  for  European  travel." 

Geoffrey  sat  erect  in  his  chair,  as  if  suddenly  gal 
vanized,  and  shot  a  look  of  astonishment  at  his 
companion. 

"Uncle  August!  you  know  that  wouldn't  do  at  all, 
unless — Aunt  Alice  should  accompany  us,"  he  said, 
in  confusion. 

Mr.  Huntress  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"I  imagine  it  could  be  managed  without  depriv 
ing  me  of  my  wife  as  well  as  my  daughter.  How 
would  it  do  to  have  that  young  lady  go  along  as — as 
Mrs.  Geoffrey  Dale  Huntress?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  WEDDING  IN  PROSPECT 

AT  that  moment  a  servant  appeared  at  the  door 
and  was  about  to  enter  upon  some  trifling  errand. 
Seeing  the  eager,  intent  look  upon  the  faces  of  both 
men,  she  quietly  withdrew,  unobserved. 

Geoffrey  sat  up,  amazed. 

"Surely  you  cannot  mean  that — that  Gladys  is  to 
go  as  my  wife?"  he  exclaimed,  flushing  hotly. 

"And  why  not  ?  You  expect  to  marry  Gladys  some 
time,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"Yes,  I  hope  so,  Uncle  August;  but  I  am  not  now 
in  a  position  to  properly  take  care  of  a  wife." 

"But  we  are  going  to  pay  you  a  good  salary  and 
defray  your  traveling  expenses  also,  if  you  go  abroad 
for  us,"  said  Mr.  Huntress.  "You  will  have  to  be 
away  for  several  months,  and  I  know  that  Gladys 
will  grieve  sadly  over  the  separation.  I  have  given 
the  subject  a  good  deal  of  thought;  and  I  have  talked 
it  over  with  mother.  Gladys  wants  a  trip  abroad,  we 
want  her  to  have  it,  too,  and  neither  of  us  feels  like 
crossing  the  ocean;  therefore  we  have  decided  that 
the  best  arrangement,  for  all  parties,  will  be  to  have 

96 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  97 

a  wedding  and  send  you  two  off  together  on  a  bridal 
trip.  Of  course  we  shall  miss  our  daughter — we 
shall  miss  you  both  for  that  matter;  but  the  earlier 
you  go  the  sooner  we  shall  have  you  back  again. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  proposition?" 

"Nothing  could  give  me  greater  happiness  than  to 
have  my  dearest  hopes  realized  in  this  unexpected 
manner;  but  I  had  made  up  my  mind  not  to  claim 
the  fulfillment  of  Gladys'  promise  to  me  until  I  could 
make  a  place  for  myself  in  the  world,  and  provide  a 
generous  support  for  her,"  Geoffrey  replied,  with 
still  heightened  color. 

"Nonsense !"  began  Mr.  Huntress,  and  then  sud 
denly  checked  himself.  "No,  it  isn't  nonsense, 
either,"  he  added,  "such  a  resolve  was  both  a  wise 
and  a  noble  one,  and  worthy  of  you,  Geoff.  Under 
different  circumstances  I  should  feel  that  it  would  be 
wiser  for  you  to  wait  until  you  were  established  in 
some  profitable  business.  Somebody,  however,  must 
go  abroad  for  the  firm.  I  do  not  want  to,  neither 
of  the  other  partners  can  leave,  and  so  we  have 
agreed  to  send  some  one  in  my  place.  Besides  this, 
I  am  what  would  be  termed  a  rich  man,  though  I 
haven't  as  much  as  the  Astors  or  Vanderbilts,  and 
all  that  I  have  will  some  day  belong  to  Gladys — 
except  a  little  slice  that  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to 
lay  aside  for  you — and  she  may  as  well  begin  to 
reap  the  benefit  of  it  now.  I  want  her  to  see  the  old 
country;  she  is  just  fresh  from  school,  and  in  the 


98  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

right  trim  and  mood  to  enjoy  it;  she  would  grieve 
and  mope  to  have  you  go  and  leave  her  behind,  so  1 
want  you  to  go  together.  I  know  that  you  would 
have  a  jolly  time  of  it.  So  we  will  have  a  little  knot 
tied  beforehand,  to  make  everything  all  right  and 
proper,  and  then  you  may  enjoy  your  honeymoon  to 
your  heart's  content." 

Geoffrey's  heart  was  beating  with  great,  heavy 
throbs  of  joy  over  these  plans. 

No  thought  of  any  such  delightful  scheme  had  for 
an  instant  entered  his  mind;  indeed,  he  had  feared 
that  it  would  be  a  long  time  before  he  should  feel 
that  he  had  a  right  to  ask  Gladys  to  be  his  wife,  and 
now  every  obstacle  had  been  removed,  and  an  easy 
path  to  the  very  summit  of  his  hopes  laid  out  for 
him. 

"Well,  Geoff,"  continued  Mr.  Huntress,  who  had 
been  watching  him  while  something  of  this  was  pass 
ing  through  his  brain,  "what  lies  heavy  on  your  mind 
now?  You  look  as  somber  as  if  I  had  been  plotting 
to  separate  a  pair  of  lovers,  instead  of  giving  them 
to  each  other  with  my  fondest  blessing." 

Geoffrey  looked  up  with  gleaming  eyes. 

"I  am  anything  but  'somber'  over  your  proposi 
tion,  Uncle  August.  I  am  simply  trying  to  realize 
my  great  happiness,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  vibrated 
with  joy;  "but  what  will  Gladys  herself  say  to  this 
plan?" 

"Go  ask  her,  my  boy.     I'll  bet  a  big  apple  she 


99 

won't  say  no,"  returned  the  gentleman,  with  a  sly 
wink  and  a  chuckle.  "Hold  on  a  minute,  though, 
Geoff,"  he  added,  as  the  young  man  sprang  to  his 
feet  to  obey  him,  "I  want  to  tell  you  a  little  more 
about  the  business  part  of  the  plan,  before  you  get 
immersed  in  the  love-ly  part  of  it.  You've  three 
months  yet  before  you,  as  we  do  not  want  you  to  sail 
before  the  last  of  December,  or  the  first  of  January 
— rather  cold  weather  for  a  pleasure  trip  across  the 
Atlantic,  eh?"  and  he  shivered  at  the  thought;  "but 
we  can't  have  everything  just  as  we  want  it.  Another 
thing;  owing  to  some  details  connected  with  our  Bos 
ton  house,  you  will  be  obliged  to  sail  from  that  city 
instead  of  going  direct  from  New  York." 

"We  occasionally  have  some  very  pleasant 
weather  in  January;  perhaps  the  fates  will  be  pro 
pitious  and  give  us  a  pleasant  passage,"  said  Geof 
frey,  smiling;  "besides,  I  think  I  have  heard  that 
some  of  those  Boston  steamers  are  fully  as  com 
fortable  and  safe  as  those  running  from  New  York." 

"Well,  comfort  yourself  all  you  can,  my  boy.  I 
don't  envy  you,  however,"  retorted  the  elder  gentle 
man,  with  a  grimace.  "Meantime,"  he  continued, 
"we  shall  want  you  over  at  the  office  to  receive  in 
structions  and  gain  a  little  knowledge  regarding 
your  duties  on  the  other  side." 

"I  do  not  care  how  soon  you  set  me  at  work," 
Geoffrey  eagerly  replied,  for  he  was  longing  with  all 
his  heart  to  become  a  man  of  business,  and  to  feel 


100  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

that  he  was  really  doing  something  toward  provid 
ing  for  his  bride. 

"I  imagine  that  we  shall  all  have  enough  to  do  if 
there  is  to  be  a  wedding,"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  smil 
ing,  "for  mother  and  I  want  to  marry  our  only 
daughter  off  in  good  shape,  you  know.  There,  that 
is  all  just  now;  you  may  go  and  find  out  how  Gladys 
feels  about  it." 

Geoffrey  departed  with  a  bounding  heart,  yet 
hardly  able  to  realize  the  good  fortune  that  had  so 
unexpectedly  fallen  to  his  lot. 

He  found  Gladys  in  the  music-room,  running 
through  some  new  pieces  which  he  had  purchased 
for  her  the  day  before. 

He  went  up  to  her,  captured  the  two  small  hands 
that  were  evoking  such  sweet  strains  from  the  piano, 
and  drew  her  to  a  small  sofa  that  stood  near. 

"My  darling,  I  have  a  'very  important  communi 
cation  to  make  to  you,"  he  said,  bending  toward  her 
and  fondly  touching  her  forehead  with  his  lips. 

"  ''Very  important?'  "  she  repeated,  archly.  "You 
look  as  if  it  was  very  pleasant,  too." 

"It  is  to  me,  and  I  hope  it  will  prove  the  same  to 
you.  What  do  you  suppose  our  paterfamilias  has 
been  proposing  to  me  this  morning?"  the  young  man 
asked,  with  a  luminous  face. 

The  beautiful  girl  thought  a  moment  before  reply 
ing,  the  quick  color  leaping  to  her  cheeks. 

"I  believe  I  can  guess  it!"  she  exclaimed,  clasping 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  101 

her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  delight.  "Oh,  Geoffrey, 
is  he  going  to  take  us  all  to  Europe?  That  is  it!" 
she  added,  exultantly.  "I  know  by  your  tell-tale  face. 
How  perfectly  charming!" 

Geoffrey  smiled  wisely. 

"You  have  guessed  too  much  and  too  little,  my 
sunbeam,"  he  said. 

"What  a  paradoxical  statement,  my  learned 
Bachelor  of  Arts !  I  expected  better  things  of  you," 
retorted  Gladys,  merrily. 

"You  have  yet  to  find  my  statement  true,  in  spite 
of  the  seeming  paradox,"  he  replied,  with  mock  dig 
nity.  "Somebody  is  going  to  Europe — we  are  not 
all  going,  however." 

"Oh,  Geoff!  you  are  not  to  be  left  at  home,  are 
you?"  cried  his  betrothed,  in  a  disappointed  tone, 
her  face  paling  at  the  thought. 

"Guess  again,  my  lady,"  he  said,  teasingly. 

"Well,  I  know  that  papa  would  not  go  without 
mamma,  and  I  am  sure  she  would  never  cross  the 
ocean  without  him,  and  they  certainly  would  not  take 
such  a  trip  and  leave  me  behind,"  responded  Gladys, 
with  a  puzzled  air. 

'Plato,  thou  reasonest  well,'  "  quoted  Geoffrey, 
an  amused  twinkle  in  his  eyes;  "and  not  to  keep  you 
longer  in  suspense,  I  will  inform  you  that  Uncle 
August  has  some  business  abroad,  which,  as  he  can 
not  make  up  his  mind  to  the  voyage,  he  thinks  I  can 
attend  to,  and  he  has  proposed  that  I  take  you 


102  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

along  with  me.  We  are  to  have  a  six-months'  trip, 
combine  business  with  pleasure,  and  get  all  the  en 
joyment  we  can  out  of  it." 

Gladys  gave  one  startled,  astonished  glance  at 
her  lover's  face  as  he  concluded,  and  then  her  face, 
clouded  and  her  eyes  drooped  beneath  his. 

"Did — papa  propose  that  to  you?"  she  asked,  in 
a  low  tone,  a  burning  blush  suffusing  her  face. 

"Yes,  dear.  He  said  you  had  long  wanted  to  go 
abroad,  and  he  thought  this  would  be  a  fine  oppor 
tunity  for  both  of  us.  Doesn't  the  idea  please  you?" 

Geoffrey  knew  well  enough  what  was  passing  in 
her  mind,  but  he  was  so  jubilant  and  so  confident  of 
the  issue  of  the  interview  that  a  spirit  of  mischief 
possessed  him  to  tease  her  a  little. 

"I  should  love  to  go  abroad — I  have  always 
longed  to  go,  as  papa  says,"  Gladys  answered, 
gravely,  and  with  still  downcast  eyes;  "but — I  do  not 
think  I  can  go  without  papa  and  mamma." 

"Why?"  returned  Geoffrey,  in  a  pretended  sur 
prise.  "Uncle  August  thought,  as  you  and  I  were 
both  fresh  from  school,  we  should  appreciate  and 
enjoy  the  sight-seeing  much  better  to  go  together." 

"It  would  be  lovely,  but — Geoff,  you  know  I  can 
not  go — so,"  she  persisted,  with  a  crimson  face,  and 
a  suspicious  tremor  in  her  voice. 

He  gathered  her  close  in  his  arms,  and  laid  her 
head  against  his  breast. 

"Darling,  forgive  me  for  teasing  you,"  he  said. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  103 

"Of  course,  you  cannot  go — 'so';  but,  Gladys,  will 
you  go  with  me  as  my  wife?" 

He  could  feel  the  quick  bounding  of  her  heart  at 
this  unexpected  proposition,  and  he  knew  well  enough 
that  she  would  raise  no  more  objections  to  the  trip 
abroad. 

He  then  repeated  the  conversation  that  had  passed 
between  her  father  and  himself  that  morning,  telling 
her  how  surprised  he  had  been  at  the  plan,  and  how, 
at  first,  he  had  hardly  felt  it  right  to  adopt  it,  con 
sidering  his  rather  doubtful  position  in  life.  Still, 
he  had  reasoned,  if  he  could  save  Mr.  Huntress  from 
a  dreaded  journey  in  the  dead  of  winter,  and  if  his 
services  were  to  be  worth  the  generous  sum  he  had 
named  as  his  salary,  he  might  feel  justified  in  waiving 
his  own  scruples  and  in  accepting  the  great  happiness 
offered  him,  though  he  never  would  have  dreamed  of 
proposing  such  a  measure  himself. 

"My  Gladys,"  he  said,  in  conclusion,  "it  is  very 
sudden,  and  there  is  only  a  little  time  before  I  must 
go.  Will  you  come  with  me,  or  must  I  go  by  my 
self?" 

There  was  a  minute  of  silence,  then  Gladys  raised 
her  head,  and  laid  her  lips  softly  against  her  lover's 
cheek. 

"Under  such  circumstances,  you  may  be  very  sure 
that  I  shall  not  let  you  go  alone,"  she  murmured, 
with  a  happy  little  laugh,, 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

His  arms  closed  more  fondly  about  her.  He  bent 
and  kissed  her  lips,  his  face  radiant  with  joy. 

"Oh!  my  darling,  who  would  have  believed  eight 
or  nine  years  ago  that  such  happiness  could  fall  to 
the  lot  of  the  poor  boy  whom  you  rescued  from  a 
mob  in  the  street,"  he  said,  in  a  tremulous  tone. 

They  discussed  their  anticipated  trip  fully  and 
freely  after  this,  laid  out  their  route,  and  formed 
many  a  pleasant  plan  for  the  coming  years. 

The  whole  family  held  a  council  that  evening,  and 
it  was  decided  that  preparations  for  the  wedding 
should  be  entered  upon  immediately,  and  that  the 
marriage  should  occur  just  previous  to  the  sailing 
of  the  steamer  on  which  the  young  couple  would  em 
bark  for  Europe. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress  found  it  somewhat  trying 
to  contemplate  the  loneliness  which  they  knew  would 
follow  the  departure  of  their  children,  but  they  be 
lieved  that  the  arrangement  would  be  for  their  in 
terest  and  happiness,  and  they  would  not  mar  their 
joy  by  giving  expression  to  any  feeling  of  sorrow  or 
regret. 

Geoffrey  at  once  entered  upon  his  duties,  and  with 
an  enthusiasm  and  energy  that  promised  well  for  the 
future;  while  Mrs.  Huntress  and  Gladys  busied 
themselves  about  the  interesting  mysteries  of  a  wed 
ding  trousseau  and  preparations  for  the  grand  re 
ception,  that  was  to  follow  the  marriage  ceremony  in 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  105 

Plymouth  Church  somewhere  about  the  last  of  De 
cember  or  the  first  of  January. 


While  all  these  events  were  transpiring  in  Brook 
lyn,  Everet  Mapleson  was  living  in  a  state  of  de 
pression  and  unrest  in  his  beautiful  home  near  Rich 
mond. 

After  his  trip  to  that  mining  district  in  New  Mex 
ico,  where  he  had  visited  the  grave  and  former  home 
of  Annie  Dale,  he  returned  immediately  to  Vue  de 
1'Eau,  where  he  remained,  appearing  very  little  like 
the  free-and-easy  student  who  had  been  so  full  of 
life  and  hope  at  the  conclusion  of  his  college  course. 

Colonel  Mapleson  and  his  wife  returned  from 
Newport  about  the  same  time,  and  both  wondered 
what  could  have  occurred  to  change  their  son  thus  in 
so  short  a  time. 

Mrs.  Mapleson  attributed  it  to  his  hopeless  at 
tachment  to  the  beautiful  girl  whom  she  had  seen 
at  Yale,  and  for  whom  Everet  had  confessed  his 
love;  but  she  could  not  get  one  word  from  him  on  the 
subject,  although  she  had  tried  to  gain  his  confidence 
upon  several  occasions. 

"Father,"  said  the  young  man,  coming  into  the 
library  one  morning,  after  the  household  had  set 
tled  into  its  usual  routine,  "while  you  were  away  I 
visited  the  Hermitage,  and  made  a  singular  discov 
ery  there." 


106  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"Ah !  I  imagined  everything  of  a  singular  char 
acter  had  disappeared  from  that  place  when  Robert 
Dale  departed  this  life.  What  was  the  nature  of 
your  discovery,  pray?"  Colonel  Mapleson  remarked, 
looking  up  from  the  newspaper  that  he  was  reading, 
and  removing  his  spectacles. 

Everet  described  his  visit  to  the  place,  told  of  his 
energetic  blow  upon  the  desk  and  its  results,  and 
then  produced  the  package  of  certificates  and  the  pic 
ture  which  he  had  found,  to  prove  his  statements. 

"Well,  this  is  a  singular  discovery,  I  confess," 
said  his  father,  when  he  had  finished.  "Let  me  have 
a  look  at  that  picture." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  upon  receiving  it  he 
turned  to  the  light  to  examine  it. 

"Yes,  this  must  be  a  likeness  of  Mrs.  Dale;  it  re 
sembles  her  strikingly,  although  she  was  greatly 
changed,  and  this  must  have  been  taken  many  years 
previous  to  my  acquaintance  with  her." 

"Then  you  knew  her?"  said  his  son. 

"Oh,  yes;  I've  eaten  many  a  fine  cookie  baked  by 
her  hands  during  my  boyhood,"  replied  Colonel  Ma 
pleson,  musingly.  "Poor  Robert  Dale!  so  he  treas 
ured  his  love  for  her  as  long  as  he  lived!" 

"And  he  has  left  all  his  money  to  her  daughter," 
said  Everet,  touching  the  package  of  certificates  that 
lay  on  the  table. 

"It  would  have  been  more  to  the  purpose  if  he  had 
given  the  family  some  of  it  while  they  were  suffering 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  107 

the  stings  of  poverty,"  Colonel  Mapleson  remarked, 
his  attention  still  riveted  upon  the  picture. 

"Did  you  know  the  daughter?"  Everet  inquired. 

"Yes;  I  had  some  acquaintance  with  her." 

"Were  they  so  very  poor?" 

"Well,  they  had  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it,  I  reckon, 
for  a  while;  but  I  did  not  realize  it  at  the  time,  for 
I  was  very  young,  only  visited  Uncle  Jabez  during 
my  vacation;  you  know  he  sent  me  to  Baltimore  to 
school.  Uncle  Jabez  gave  them  a  cottage  rent  free, 
and  gave  them  something  besides  to  help  eke  out  a 
small  annuity  that  Mrs.  Dale  had,  and  that  was  all 
they  had  to  live  upon  until  they  opened  a  small  pri 
vate  school.  After  I  came  into  possession  of  the 
estate  I  allowed  them  to  remain  in  the  cottage,  the 
same  as  before,  although  they  would  not  accept  from 
me  the  money  that  they  had  received  from  Uncle 
Jabez;  they  were  very  proud." 

"Then  that  cottage  belongs  to  you?"  Everet  re 
marked. 

"Yes." 

"Has  it  ever  been  occupied  since  the  Dales  left 
it?" 

"No." 

"To  whom  does  the  furniture  belong?" 

"How  do  you  know  that  it  is  furnished?"  Colonel 
Mapleson  asked,  turning  around  and  glancing 
sharply  at  his  son. 

Everet  colored. 


108  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"I  was  riding  by  there,  one  day,  and  felt  a  curi 
osity  to  look  inside  the  house " 

"But  the  curtains  are  all  drawn,"  interrupted  his 
father. 

"True;  but  I  managed  to  get  a  glimpse  for  all 
that,"  the  young  man  returned,  lightly,  although  he 
did  not  care  to  tell  just  how  he  had  learned  that  the 
house  was  furnished.  "By  the  way,"  he  continued, 
"there  is  some  strange  story  about  the  disappearance 
of  Mrs.  Dale's  daughter,  isn't  there?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  so;  she  went  away  somewhere  to 
get  a  place  as  governess,  and,  as  she  never  came 
back,  people  imagined  there  was  some  mystery 
about  it" 

"What  is  your  theory  regarding  it?"  Everet  asked. 

"My  theory?  I  don't  know  as  I  have  any;  I 
was  away  traveling  at  the  time.  She  may  have  gone 
as  governess  into  some  family,  who  afterward  went 
abroad,  taking  her  with  them;  or,  what  is  more 
likely,  she  may  have  married  and  removed  to  some 
distant  portion  of  the  country." 

"One  would  suppose  that  she  would  have  wished 
to  dispose  of  the  furniture  in  her  home  before  going 
away  permanently,"  Everet  observed. 

"Oh,  the  furniture  belongs  with  the  cottage — 
didn't  I  tell  you?"  replied  his  father. 

"No,  you  didn't,"  said  Everet,  drily,  and  think 
ing  old  Jabez  Mapleson  must  have  been  pretty  lav 
ish  with  his  money  to  have  furnished  the  cottage  in 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  109 

such  a  luxurious  style  for  his  poor  relatives.  "At 
all  events,"  he  continued,  "it  is  strange  that  she  did 
not  communicate  her  plans,  whatever  they  were,  to 
some  one  whom  she  had  known,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  perhaps;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are 
strangely  interested  in  the  fate  of  this  girl,  Ev,"  and 
his  father  turned  about  again  and  looked  him 
squarely  in  the  face,  as  he  said  this. 

Again  the  young  man  colored. 

"I  don't  see  anything  very  remarkable  about  it, 
when  I  have  just  discovered  a  fortune  for  her,"  he 
replied,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation. 

"Well,  no;  there  is  something  in  that  argument, 
surely,"  returned  his  father,  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 
"How  much  does  it  amount  to?"  and  Colonel  Ma- 
pleson  took  up  the  certificates  and  began  to  examine 
them. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ROBERT  DALE'S  WILL  BROUGHT  TO  LIGHT 

HE  looked  each  paper  carefully  through,  writing 
down  the  amounts  represented,  and  finally  adding 
them  to  find  the  sum. 

"Well,  it  makes  quite  a  handsome  little  fortune, 
when  we  take  into  consideration  the  fact  that  it  has 
been  accumulating  all  these  years,"  he  said,  as  he 
pushed  toward  his  son  the  paper  upon  which  he  had 
been  figuring.  "And  yet,"  he  added,  "I  know  that 
this  cannot  represent  one-half  of  Robert  Dale's  for 
tune.  What  can  have  become  of  the  rest?" 

"He  may  have  given  it  away  during  his  life,"  Ev- 
eret  suggested. 

"Possibly;  and  yet  I  do  not  believe  it,"  said 
Colonel  Mapleson,  thoughtfully.  "He  was  a  strange 
character,  as  the  hiding  of  these  documents  proves, 
and  I  am  convinced  there  are  more  concealed  some 
where  else." 

"I  do  not  see  what  the  man  could  have  been  think 
ing  of,  if  he  was  in  his  right  mind,  to  hide  his  prop 
erty  in  such  a  way,  without  leaving  some  clew  to  it ! 
How  could  he  expect  his  heir  would  ever  be  benefited 

110 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  111 

by  his  money,  when  what  represented  it  was  con 
cealed  in  that  secret  compartment?"  said  Everet, 
impatiently. 

"That  is  a  question,  and  the  act  was  only  one  of 
the  many  queer  things  that  made  the  man  what  he 
was,"  replied  his  father. 

"What  will  you  do  with  these  papers?"  the  young 
man  inquired. 

"I  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  them,"  returned 
the  colonel,  a  perplexed  frown  on  his  brow. 

"Who  would  inherit  the  property  in  case  the  di 
rect  legatee  cannot  be  found?" 

"I  suppose  I  am  the  nearest  of  kin,"  said  Colonel 
Mapleson.  "It  was  so  decided  when  the  question 
as  to  who  should  inherit  the  Hermitage  and  land  be 
longing  to  him,  came  up  after  his  death." 

"Then  all  this  money  will  be  yours  also,  if  neither 
Annie  Dale  nor  any  of  her  heirs  can  be  found?"  said 
Everet,  with  suppressed  eagerness. 

"I  suppose  it  will;  but " 

"But  what?" 

"I  do  not  want  it,  Everet;  I  have  enough  without 
it.  I  would  much  prefer  that  the  rightful  heir  should 
have  it." 

"I  suppose  you  will  advertise  for  Annie  Dale,  or 
for  her  nearest  of  kin?"  Everet  said,  bending  a  keen 
look  upon  his  father. 

"I  don't  know.     I  shall  have  to  think  the  matter 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

over  first — perhaps  consult  my  lawyer  about  it," 
Colonel  Mapleson  replied,  meditatively. 

He  fell  into  deep  thought,  and  neither  spoke  for 
several  minutes. 

At  length  the  colonel  glanced  up  at  the  clock. 

"Well,"  he  remarked,  with  a  sigh,  "I  have  busi« 
ness  to  attend  to,  and  I  must  be  off." 

He  arose,  gathered  up  the  papers,  carefully  wrap 
ping  them  all  together,  then,  locking  them  into  a 
drawer  of  his  desk,  he  abruptly  left  the  room. 

Everet  sat  there  for  more  than  an  hour  afterward, 
his  head  bowed  upon  his  hand,  thinking  deeply,  his 
brow  contracted,  his  whole  face  wearing  a  perplexed 
and  troubled  look. 

At  length,  he,  too,  left  the  house,  ordered  his 
horse,  and  rode  away  in  the  direction  of  the  old  mill. 

Reaching  the  Dale  cottage,  which  was  evidently 
his  destination,  he  dismounted,  fastened  his  horse, 
and  then  bent  his  steps  around  to  the  back  door,  in 
tending  to  force  an  entrance,  as  before;  and  yet,  if 
any  one  had  asked  the  question,  he  could  not  have 
told  why  he  had  come  there  again. 

But,  as  he  was  passing  the  window  of  the  little 
bedroom,  he  was  sure  that  he  saw  one  of  the  cur 
tains  move. 

"Aha!"  he  said  to  himself;  "either  a  mouse  or 
some  human  being  was  the  cause  of  that.  I  do  not 
believe  there  is  anything  inside  that  empty  house  to 
attract  a  hungry  mouse,  so  I  will  be  cautious  in  mv 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  113 

movements,  and  maybe  I  shall  make  a  discovery  of 
some  kind." 

He  slipped  off  his  low  shoes,  stepped  noiselessly 
upon  the  veranda,  keeping  out  of  the  range  of  the 
window  so  as  not  to  cast  a  shadow  within  the  room, 
and  crept  close  up  to  the  low  sill. 

The  curtain  had  been  thrust  aside  a  trifle,  so  that 
he  could  easily  see  the  interior  of  the  room,  and  he 
beheld  that  which  riveted  him,  spellbound,  to  the 
spot,  and  drove  every  drop  of  blood  to  his  heart. 

He  saw  his  father  sitting  close  beside  the  window, 
so  close  that  his  lightest  movement  caused  one  of  his 
arms  to  hit  the  curtain. 

On  the  floor,  before  him,  there  stood  an  open 
trunk,  of  medium  size,  which,  apparently,  had  been 
pulled  from  beneath  the  bed,  and  from  which  Colonel 
Mapleson  had  taken  a  portfolio,  while  he  was  ab 
sorbed  in  looking  over  a  package  of  letters  which  it 
contained. 

He  was  very  pale,  and  his  son  could  perceive 
traces  of  deep  emotion  on  his  face,  which  seemed  to 
have  grown  strangely  old  during  the  last  two  hours. 

The  young  man  drew  back,  after  that  one  look, 
the  color  all  gone  from  his  own  face,  and  his  lips 
strangely  compressed. 

Without  making  the  slightest  noise,  he  stole  from 
the  veranda  picked  up  his  shoes,  and  hurried  from 
the  place. 

Outside  the  gate,  he  paused  long  enough  to  re- 


114  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

place  his  shoes  on  his  feet,  when  he  again  mounted 
his  horse,  and  rode  quietly  away. 

Half  an  hour  later  Colonel  Mapleson  emerged 
from  the  front  door  of  the  cottage,  and,  after  look 
ing  cautiously  around,  as  if  he  was  afraid  of  being 
observed,  he  passed  quickly  down  the  steps,  out  of 
the  gate,  carefully  closing  it  after  him,  and  then 
strode  rapidly  toward  a  thick  growth  of  trees  and 
bushes,  behind  which  he  had  fastened  his  horse. 

Springing  into  his  saddle,  he  spoke  sharply  to 
the  animal,  and  rode  away  at  a  brisk  trot  in  the  op 
posite  direction  from  that  which  Everet  had  taken 
a  little  while  before. 

But  at  the  end  of  a  mile  or  so,  he  turned  abruptly 
into  another  cart-path,  and,  after  nearly  an  hour's 
ride,  came  in  sight  of  the  Hermitage. 

Dismounting,  he  led  his  horse  behind  the  house 
into  the  dilapidated  stable,  where  he  would  be  shel 
tered  and  concealed  from  sight,  if  any  one  chanced  to 
pass  that  way,  and  then  he  made  his  own  way  inside 
the  Hermitage. 

It  was  evident,  from  all  his  movements,  that  he 
had  come  there  with  some  settled  purpose,  for  he 
drew  a  hammer  and  chisel  from  one  of  his  pockets, 
and  then  commenced  a  systematic  examination  of 
the  room  that  had  been  Robert  Dale's  sanctum. 

But  it  proved  to  be  a  rather  discouraging  under 
taking,  for  there  was  very  little  about  the  room  to 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  115 

suggest  a  place  of  concealment  for  anything  of  a 
valuable  character. 

There  was  so  little  woodwork  about  the  house 
that  there  was  not  much  chance  for  secret  panels  or 
closets.  The  doors  were  of  oak — solid  oak,  for  he 
tested  them  thoroughly  with  his  hammer.  The  book 
cases  offered  not  the  slightest  evidence  of  any  hiding- 
place;  the  desk  he  examined  several  times,  finding 
the  compartment  of  which  Everet  had  told  him,  but 
no  other,  although  he  critically  examined  every  por 
tion  of  it. 

The  floor  was  of  brick,  paved  in  herringbone  pat 
terns,  but  there  was  no  indication  that  a  single  brick 
had  ever  been  removed  for  any  purpose  whatever, 
although  he  inspected  the  whole  surface  with  the 
utmost  care.  At  last,  wearied  out  with  his  fruitless 
efforts,  he  sat  down  in  the  chair  before  the  desk,  to 
rest  and  to  think. 

"I  am  confident,"  he  muttered,  "that  the  man 
must  have  made  a  will,  and  that  there  are  other 
papers  existing,  representing  a  large  amount  of  prop 
erty.  I  believe  he  cunningly  concealed  them  during 
his  lifetime,  thinking  that  when  he  came  to  die  he 
would  have  warning  enough  to  enable  him  to  con 
fide  his  secret  to  some  trustworthy  person." 

He  looked  up  at  the  ceiling;  he  closely  scrutinized 
the  window-casings  and  the  fireplace.  But  there 
wasn't  a  crack  nor  a  crevice  that  promised  a  revela 
tion  of  any  kind. 


116  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

Suddenly  an  idea  struck  him,  and  he  hastily  arose 
from  his  chair. 

It  was  a  stout  office-chair,  cushioned  with  leather 
that  was  nailed  to  the  frame.  He  turned  it  bottom- 
side  up.  Nothing  but  solid  wood  met  his  gaze. 

He  set  it  upright  again  and  passed  his  hand  over 
the  cushion.  It  was  springless  and  to  all  appearance 
had  never  been  disturbed  since  it  was  first  nailed  to 
the  chair. 

After  thinking  a  moment,  Colonel  Mapleson  took 
his  jack-knife  from  his  pocket  and  deliberately  cut 
the  cover  entirely  off. 

Only  a  scant  layer  of  curled  hair  lay  beneath, 
closely  matted  and  filled  with  dust.  He  removed 
this,  and  instantly  an  excalamation  of  satisfaction 
escaped  him,  for  there,  in  the  bottom  of  the  chair, 
he  had  discovered  a  square  lid,  so  cunningly  and 
smoothly  fitted  in  its  place  that  no  one  would  ever 
have  suspected  it  was  there. 

A  tiny  leather  strap  indicated  how  it  was  to  be 
lifted  from  its  place.  He  eagerly  removed  it,  and, 
underneath,  discovered  a  small  japanned  trunk  about 
twelve  inches  square. 

It  was  the  work  of  but  a  moment  to  take  it  from 
its  cunning  place  of  concealment,  where  it  had  lain 
undisturbed  for  so  many  years,  and  set  it  upon  the 
desk  before  him. 

Then  he  sat  down  again,  and  gravely  looked  at  it, 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  117 

while  he  actually  trembled  with  excitement,  and 
drops  of  perspiration  stood  all  over  his  face. 

It  was  strange  that  the  unearthing  of  another 
man's  secrets  should  affect  him  thus,  and  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  he  shrank  with  a  sort  of  superstitious 
terror  from  examining  the  contents  of  that  inoffen 
sive-looking  trunk. 

At  length  he  raised  the  hasp,  and  threw  back  the 
lid.  The  first  thing  that  met  his  eye  was  a  docu 
ment  labeled,  "Will  of  Robert  Dale,"  with  the  date, 
showing  that  it  had  been  made  only  a  few  years  pre 
vious  to  the  man's  death. 

Wtih  a  slight  shiver  of  repugnance,  Colonel  Ma- 
pleson  laid  it  unopened  on  the  desk. 

Underneath  he  found  several  bank-books  and  cer 
tificates,  all  in  Robert  Dale's  name.  Then,  to  his 
astonishment,  he  found  a  lady's  kid  glove  that  once 
had  been  white;  a  handkerchief,  fine  and  sheer,  edged 
with  soft  lace,  and  marked  with  the  initials,  "N.  D.," 
worked  in  with  hair.  A  little  package,  containing  a 
few  faded  flowers,  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  trunk, 
and  the  secret  of  Robert  Dale's  hermit  life,  and  of 
the  disposal  of  his  property,  was  a  secret  no  longer. 

An  examination  of  the  bank-books  and  certificates 
revealed  the  fact  that  many  thousands  of  dollars 
would  fall  to  Robert  Dale's  heir  or  heirs,  whoever 
they  might  be,  and  that  point  doubtless  the  will  would 
settle. 

Colonel  Mapleson  replaced  the  contents  of  the 


118  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

trunk  just  as  he  had  found  them,  until  he  came  to 
the  will,  which  he  held  irresolutely  in  his  hands  for 
a  long  time,  and  apparently  absorbed  in  thought. 

"Somebody  has  to  know  first  or  last,"  he  at  length 
muttered,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh,  but  he  shivered 
with  a  sort  of  nervous  dread  as  he  unfolded  the  docu 
ment,  which  was  not  sealed,  and  began  to  read  it. 

It  was  very  brief  and  comprehensive,  bequeathing 
all  that  the  testator  possessed,  unreservedly,  to 
"Annie  Dale  and  her  heirs  forever,"  and  naming  as 
his  executor  a  certain  man  residing  in  Richmond — 
Richard  Douglas,  to  whom  alone  had  been  confided 
the  secret  of  the  concealment  of  the  will  and  other 
papers. 

"Ah!"  said  Colonel  Mapleson,  "this  accounts  for 
their  never  having  been  discovered  before.  Richard 
Douglas  was  very  ill  at  the  time  of  Robert  Dale's 
death,  and  was  himself  buried  only  a  week  later." 

There  was  a  codicil  to  the  will,  mentioning  some 
later  deposits  which  had  been  made  in  the  name  of 
Annie  Dale,  "certificates  of  which  would  be  found  be 
neath  a  movable  panel  in  one  end  of  the  writer's 
desk,  there  being  no  room  for  them  in  the  trunk 
with  the  others." 

Colonel  Mapleson  looked  greatly  disturbed  when 
he  finished  reading  the  document. 

"It  would  have  been  better  for  me  had  a  mountain 
fallen  upon  me,  than  the  duty  which  this  discovery 
imposes,"  he  groaned,  as  he  laid  it  back  in  its  place 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  119 

and  closed  the  trunk.  "I  must  either  do  it,  or  com 
mit  a  crime  by  withholding  a  fortune  from  the  lawful 
heir." 

He  fell  into  a  profound  reverie,  which  lasted  until 
the  sun  went  down  and  the  light  began  to  grow  dim 
and  the  air  chill  within  that  lonely  dwelling. 

An  impatient  and  prolonged  whinny  from  his 
horse  at  length  aroused  him  from  his  painful  mus 
ings,  when  he  arose,  and,  taking  the  trunk  with  him, 
he  left  the  house,  brought  forth  his  horse  from  his 
long  fast,  and  started  on  his  homeward  way. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  he  reached  Vue  de  1'Eau, 
and,  by  exercising  a  little  caution,  he  managed  to 
effect  an  entrance  to  his  library  unobserved,  where 
he  immediately  concealed  the  trophy  which  he  had 
that  day  discovered. 


While  Colonel  Mapleson  had  been  engaged  with 
his  laborious  search  at  the  Hermitage,  his  son  was 
earnestly  pursuing  investigations  elsewhere. 

After  stealing  noiselessly  away  from  the  cottage, 
where  he  had  discovered  his  father  within  it  looking 
over  that  trunk,  he  only  proceeded  as  far  as  the  old 
mill,  where  he  again  dismounted,  and  leading  his 
horse  beneath  a  shed  that  was  attached  to  it,  and 
which  was  so  thickly  overgrown  with  vines  that  it 
made  a  very  secure  hiding-place,  he  fastened  him  to 
a  post,  after  which  he  climbed  the  stairs  to  the  main 


120  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

portion  of  the  crazy  structure,  and  remained  there, 
watching  until  he  saw  Colonel  Mapleson  leave  the 
cottage,  and  when  he  was  well  out  of  sight  he  stole 
back  to  the  mysterious  little  house,  resolved  not  to 
leave  it  again  until  he,  too,  had  seen  the  contents 
of  that  hitherto  unsuspected  trunk,  and  learned  the 
secret  of  its  being  there. 

He  effected  an  entrance  the  same  way  that  he  had 
done  before — by  shaking  loose  the  bolt  on  the 
kitchen  door — made  his  way  to  the  bedroom,  lifted 
the  valance  of  the  couch  and  looked  eagerly  be 
neath  it. 

The  trunk  was  there. 

It  was  the  work  of  but  a  moment  to  pull  it  forth 
from  its  hiding-place,  but  it  was  not  so  easy  to  open 
it. 

He  pried  patiently  at  the  lock  for  a  long  time  be 
fore  he  succeeded  in  forcing  it;  but  it  gave  way  at 
last,  and,  with  a  thrill  of  expectation,  mingled  with 
something  of  awe  and  dread,  he  laid  back  the  lid  to 
examine  the  contents. 

It  was  packed  full  of  clothing. 

There  were  dainty  dresses  of  different  materials — 
silk,  and  wool,  and  muslin.  There  were  mantels  and 
jackets,  with  underclothing,  finely  embroidered  and 
trimmed  with  lace,  besides  many  other  accessories  of 
a  refined  lady's  toilet.  There  were  pretty  boxes 
filled  with  laces,  ribbons,  handkerchiefs,  and  gloves. 
There  was  a  small  jewel  casket,  in  which  there  were 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  121 

a  few  but  expensive  articles  of  jewelry — a  watch- 
case,  containing  a  small  enameled  and  jeweled  watch 
and  chain,  and  many  other  articles  in  that  closely 
packed  trunk. 

But  Everet  cared  for  none  of  these  things;  he  was 
hunting  for,  and  at  last  he  found,  that  portfolio  over 
which  his  father  had  been  so  much  absorbed,  and  he 
seized  it  with  an  air  of  triumph,  for  he  believed  it 
must  contain  the  solution  of  the  secret  which  of  late 
had  caused  him  many  sleepless  nights  and  anxious 
days. 


CHAPTER  X 

TWO  LETTERS 

THE  portfolio  was  not  locked,  and  within  it  Ev- 
eret  discovered  numerous  letters,  all  of  which  were 
addressed  to  "Miss  Annie  Dale."  Most  of  them 
were  in  ladies'  handwriting,  and  a  glance  sufficed  to 
show  that  they  were  from  schoolmates  and  girlish 
friends. 

There  were  also  several  essays,  which  had  evi 
dently  been  written  by  Annie  herself,  when  she  was 
at  school,  and  these  were  carefully  tied  together 
with  a  narrow  and  faded  blue  ribbon.  A  package 
of  little  billets  contained  locks  of  hair  of  various 
colors  and  shades,  fancifully  braided  and  glued  to 
the  paper,  each  with  the  name  of  the  donor  written 
underneath.  There  were  a  few  drawings,  very 
neatly  done,  some  of  landscapes,  others  of  flowers, 
ferns,  and  grasses,  and  one  that  brought  a  startled 
cry  from  Everet  Mapleson's  lips,  for  it  was  a  faith 
ful  representation  of  that  very  house  in  the  mining 
village  of  New  Mexico,  that  he  had  visited  only  a 
few  weeks  since.  The  same  hand  had  done  this  that 
had  drawn  the  others,  there  could  be  no  doubt,  even 

122 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

if  the  initials  "A.  D."  at  the  bottom  had  not  testified 
to  the  fact. 

'  'A.  D.,'  "  murmured  the  young  man.  "The  puz 
zle  is  slowly  unweaving  itself.  This  trunk  must  have 
been  brought  here  after  she  died;  but  by  whom? 

His  face  was  very  grave  and  troubled,  for  dis 
agreeable  thoughts  and  suspicions  came  crowding 
thick  and  fast  upon  him. 

He  put  the  drawings  carefully  back  into  the  pocket 
from  which  he  had  taken  them,  and  then  continued 
his  examination  of  the  portfolio.  But  he  found  noth 
ing  in  the  other  pockets,  save  a  goodly  supply  of  sta 
tionery,  and  he  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  if 
there  had  been  any  papers  of  importance  in  the  re 
ceptacle  they  had  probably  been  removed  by  his 
father  that  very  day. 

He  began  listlessly  turning  over  the  blotting  leaves 
that  were  attached  to  the  middle  of  the  portfolio; 
there  was  now  and  then  a  half-sheet  of  paper  be 
tween  them,  but  nothing  else,  until  he  came  to  the 
last  two,  when  a  scrap  of  paper  with  some  writing 
upon  it  in  a  bold,  masculine  hand,  fell  fluttering  to 
the  floor. 

Everet  stooped  and  picked  it  up  to  return  it  to 
its  place,  but  the  instant  the  writing  met  his  eye,  the 
hot  blood  mounted  to  his  brow,  and  he  exclaimed, 
in  a  startled  tone: 

"At  last  I  have  found  it!" 

It  was  the  other  half  of  that  letter,  which  had 


124.  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

been  torn  in  two,  and  which  he  had  found  caught  in 
the  writing-desk,  during  his  previous  visit  to  the 
cottage.  And  this  is  how  it  appeared: 

"SANTA  FE,  June  10,  18 — . 

NIE: 

"It  is  with  deep  pain  and 

just  learned  of  the  death  of 

se  I  know  that  this  leaves 

annuity  which  was  hers 

se  and  your  future  is 

tie  friend !     I  can  say 

n  how  vain  and 

me;  but,  believe  me,  my 

you,  and  were  it  pos- 

and  strive  to  cheer 

I  am  now  going  to  ask  a 

e  been  friends  during  all  our 

not  refuse  me. 
the  cottage.    Let  it  be  still 
as  it  has  been  in  the 
any  restrictions. 

alone,  for  it  would 

secure  some  com- 

n  yourself  who  will 

Do  not  mind  the 

that  we  are  relatives 

in  this  extremity. 

ck  sufficient  for 
when  I  return 
ent  arrangement 
I  shall  be  very 
you. 
pur  friend, 

"WILLIAM  MAPLESON." 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  125 

Everet  merely  glanced  at  this,  then  taking  his  wal 
let  from  one  of  his  pockets,  he  drew  from  it  a  folded 
paper. 

It  was  the  other  half  of  the  torn  letter. 

He  laid  the  two  portions  together;  the  ragged 
edges  fitted  exactly,  the  writing  was  identical,  and 
the  epistle  was  complete,  and  read  thus : 

"SANTA  FE,  June  10,  18 — . 
"My  DEAR  ANNIE: 

"It  is  with  deep  pain  and 

regret  that  I  have  just  learned  of  the  death  of 
your  mother.  Of  course  I  know  that  this  leaves 
you  alone,  and  that  the  annuity  which  was  hers 
for  life  only  must  now  cease,  and  your  future  is 
unprovided  for.  My  poor  little  friend,  I  can  say 
nothing  to  comfort  you,  for  I  know  how  vain  and 
cold  words  are  at  such  a  time;  but,  believe  me,  my 
heart  is  with  you.  I  sorrow  with  you,  and  were  it  pos 
sible  I  would  come  to  you  and  strive  to  cheer 
you  in  this  sad  hour.  But  I  am  now  going  to  ask  a 
favor  of  you,  Annie — we'vebeenfriendsduringall  our 
life,  and  surely  you  will  not  refuse  me. 

"I  want  you  to  remain  in  the  cottage.  Let  it  be  still 
your  home  for  the  future  as  it  has  been  in  the 
past — /'/  is  yours  without  any  restrictions. 

"Youmustn't,however,staytherealone,for  it  would 
not  be  safe,  and  I  want  you  to  secure  some  com 
panion — some  one  older  than  yourself,  who  will 
be  a  sort  of  protector  to  you.  Do  not  mind  the 
expense,  Annie,  for  you  know  that  we  are  relatives. 
I  have  a  right  to  care  for  you  in  this  extremity. 

"Inclosed  you  will  find  check  sufficient  for 
your  present  necessities,  and  when  I  return 


126  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

I  will  make  some  permanent  arrangement  for  you. 
Write  me  at  once,  for  I  shall  be  very  anxious  until 
I  hear  from  you. 

"Ever  your  friend, 

"WILLIAM  MAPLESON." 

"I  thought  the  writing  was  familiar  to  me.  I  sus 
pected  my  father  wrote  it  from  the  first,  and  yet  his 
hand  has  changed  very  much  since  this  was  written. 
But  surely  there  is  nothing  in  this  merely  friendly 
epistle  to  warrant  such  dreadful  suspicions  as  have 
nearly  driven  me  wild  during  these  last  few  weeks. 
I  have  believed  the  very  worst — that  it  was  he  who 
enticed  her  away,  and  then  betrayed  her  confidence. 
I  know  that  he  was  in  New  Mexico  at  that  time;  I 
know  that  she  went  there  and  lived  with  some  one 
for  a  year;  and  then  that  ring  seemed  to  prove  every 
thing  to  me.  Still,  this  is  not  a  lover's  letter;  it  is 
simply  a  friendly  expression  of  sympathy  and  in 
terest,  and  a  desire  to  provide  for  a  relative  who  had 
no  one  to  rely  upon.  Heavens !  will  this  mystery 
never  be  solved?"  he  concluded,  rising  and  shutting 
the  portfolio,  but  retaining  the  scrap  of  paper  he 
had  found. 

He  replaced  everything  in  the  trunk,  closed  it, 
though  he  could  not  lock  it  again,  then  pushed  it 
back  under  the  bed;  after  which  he  went  quickly  out 
of  the  house,  feeling  depressed  and  bitterly  disap 
pointed  that  he  had  discovered  nothing  tangible, 
either  to  prove  or  dissipate  his  suspicions. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  127 

As  he  stepped  off  the  veranda,  something  white 
fluttered  in  the  tall  grass  at  his  feet. 

It  was  another  letter. 

A  thrill  went  tingling  all  along  his  nerves,  as  he 
stooped  and  picked  it  up. 

It  was  addressed  to  "Miss  Annie  Dale,  Richmond, 
Va.,"  and  bore  the  date  of  July  ifth,  of  the  same 
year  as  the  other  one  already  in  his  possession. 

It  was  also  in  the  same  handwriting,  and  had  been 
mailed  from  Santa  Fe. 

"This  is  one  of  the  things  that  he  came  hither  to 
secure,  and  he  must  have  dropped  it  as  he  passed 
out,"  Everet  murmured,  as  he  sat  down  upon  a  step, 
drew  the  letter  from  its  envelope,  and  began  to 
read  it. 

"My  DEAR  ANNIE,"  it  began,  like  the  other, 
"your  reply  to  my  former  letter  has  hurt  me  keenly. 
I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  your  going  out  into  the 
world  alone  to  earn  your  own  living.  I  hoped  that 
you  would  be  content  to  remain  in  your  own  home, 
and  let  me  provide  for  you  as  a  brother  would  do. 
But  since  you  refuse — how  cold  and  dignified  your 
refusal  was,  too! — I  am  forced  to  break  all  barriers 
down  and  make  a  confession  that  for  years  I  had 
yearned  to  make  and  dare  not.  Annie,  you  must  not 
become  a  governess;  I  should  be  wretched  to  think 
of  you  in  such  a  situation.  If  you  will  not  let  me 
take  care  of  you  there  at  home,  in  a  friendly  way, 
you  must  come  to  me  here;  for,  darling,  I  love  you. 
I  have  always  loved  you,  ever  since  we  played 
together,  as  children  by  the  brook  near  the  old  mill, 


128  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

sailing  our  tiny  ships  side  by  side,  and  promised  each 
other  that,  when  we  were  older,  we  would  'be  mar 
ried,  and  make  a  voyage  round  the  world  together.' 
Come  and  redeem  that  promise  to  me  now,  Annie, 
darling.  Do  not  hesitate  because  it  will  involve  the 
sacrifice  of  the  fortune  bequeathed  to  me,  under  cer 
tain  conditions,  for  I  cannot — I  will  not — marry  my 
Cousin  Estelle  while  I  love  another  as  I  love  you; 
and  what  is  all  the  wealth  of  the  world  compared 
with  our  happiness?  I  am  doing  finely  here  in  the 
mines;  in  a  few  years,  at  this  rate,  I  shall  be  worth 
even  more  than  I  shall  have  to  forfeit  by  this  step, 
so  I  will  gladly  relinquish  every  dollar  to  Estelle  for 
you,  my  darling. 

"Annie,  I  believe  that  you  love  me — I  have  long 
believed  it — and  I  have  yearned  to  make  this  con 
fession,  and  to  hear  a  similar  one  from  your  lips,  for 
a  long,  long  time.  Had  I  not  been  hampered  by 
Uncle  Jabez's  will,  and  an  unworthy  vacillation  on 
account  of  it,  I  should  have  told  you  this  that  last 
delightful  summer  we  spent  together.  But  I  have 
passed  the  Rubicon  now,  so  do  not  ruin  all  my 
hopes.  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  come  to  you,  my 
own  love.  But  my  presence  is  absolutely  necessary 
here,  and  I  cannot  leave  for  such  a  long  trip ;  but  if 
your  heart  responds  to  mine — if  you  will  come  to 
me  and  give  yourself  to  me,  I  will  meet  you  on  the 
way,  at  Kansas  City,  and  from  there  I  will  take  my 
little  wife  to  her  own  home  among  the  mountains  of 
New  Mexico,  where  we  will  be  all  in  all  to  each 
other.  You  will  not  mind  the  isolation  for  a  little 
while,  will  you,  love,  until  I  can  make  my  fortune, 
when  we  will  return  again  to  our  own  dear  sunny 
South?  Annie,  will  you  trust  me?  Will  you  come? 
If  you  do  not,  I  believe  my  life  will  be  ruined.  Do 
not  think,  for  a  moment,  that  I  shall  ever  regret 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  129 

Jabez  Mapleson's  money.     I  shall  not  if  I  can  have 
you.    Judge  me  by  your  own  heart. 

"Inclosed  you  will  find  the  route  you  are  to  take, 
carefully  mapped  out,  and  the  check  that  you  would 
not  keep  before — my  proud  little  woman !  I  feel 
sure  that  you  can  come  with  perfect  safety  alone  as 
far  as  Kansas  City,  where  I  shall  be  surely  waiting 
to  receive  you.  Send  a  telegram  naming  the  day  and 
the  hour  when  you  will  start. 

"One  thing  more,  love — say  nothing  to  any  one  of 
your  plans;  leave  that  to  me,  to  explain  after  we  are 
one.  Annie,  you  will  not  fail  me.  I  could  not  bear 
it  now,  for  I  have  set  all  my  hopes  upon  you.  I  shall 
not  rest  until  I  receive  your  telegram. 

"Ever  your  own,  WILL." 

Everet  Mapleson's  face  was  as  white  as  that  of 
the  dead  as  he  finished  reading  this  epistle. 

"It  is  all  true,  after  all,"  he  said,  with  blazing 
eyes  and  through  his  tightly  locked  teeth.  "It  was 
he  who  enticed  her  away  in  secret,  hiding  her  in  that 
out-of-the-way  place — literally  burying  her  alive.  T 
have  been  convinced  of  it  ever  since  I  found  that  ring 
with  those  initials — 'W.  M.  to  A.  D.' — engraved 
within  it,  and  yet  I  kept  hoping  it  could  not  be 
proved.  So  she  went  to  him — foolish  girl! — be 
lieving  that  he'd  marry  her  and  give  up  his  money; 
and  she  only  lived  one  short  year! 

"Now  Geoffrey  Huntress'  strange  resemblance  to 
me  is  all  accounted  for,"  he  went  on,  after  a  fit  of 
musing;  "he  is  my  father's  son  and — my  half 
brother,  and  to  him  will  belong  all  Robert  Dale's 


130  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

fortune  if  he  should  ever  learn  the  secret  of  his  birth. 
Now  I  understand  why  he  was  given  into  Jack  and 
Margaret  Henly's  care.  It  would  have  been  very 
awkward  for  the  heir  of  half  Jabez  Mapleson's  for 
tune  if  that  New  Mexican  escapade  had  leaked  out. 
But  I  cannot  comprehend  how  the  boy  became  an 
imbecile — an  accident,  Mr.  Huntress  said — and  I 
suppose  those  people  got  tired  of  caring  for  him  and 
-cast  him  off.  No;  that  can't  be,  either,  for  that 
woman  seemed  terribly  upset  about  it.  It's  all  a 
wretched  puzzle,  anyhow. 

"Zounds  I"  he  continued,  with  sudden  energy,  "the 
governor  is  a  wonderful  actor.  He  never  betrayed 
himself  by  so  much  as  the  quiver  of  an  eyelid,  this 
morning,  when  we  talked  about  this  girl's  disappear 
ance.  I  wonder  what  he  will  do  about  that  money? 
Will  he  dare  keep  it?  or  will  he  try  to  find  the  boy 
.and  make  it  over  to  him  in  some  roundabout  way? 
No;  I  do  not  believe  he  will  ever  run  any  risk  of 
having  that  New  Mexican  escapade  revealed.  He 
.couldn't  quite  stand  that,  and  my  haughty  mamma 
would  never  forgive  him.  He  will  keep  the  money, 
and  say  nothing.  Geoffrey  Huntress  will  never  get 
his  fortune,  for  /  shall  keep  the  secret  that  I  have 
this  day  discovered  closely  locked  in  my  own  breast. 
Neither  he  nor  my  father  shall  ever  learn  through 
me  that  he  is  an  heir  of  the  houses  of  Dale  and 
Mapleson. 

"He  loved  her,  though — I  am  sure  he  loved  her !" 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  131 

he  resumed,  his  eyes  falling  upon  that  still  open  let 
ter.  "This  shows  it  in  almost  every  line ;  and  his  face, 
to-day,  as  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  through  the  win 
dow,  as  he  bent  over  that  trunk,  looked  as  if  he  had 
just  buried  the  dearest  object  of  his  life.  It  must 
have  been  hard  to  look  at  all  her  pretty  fixings  and 
remember  that  one  short,  happy  year;  for  they  were. 
very  happy,  according  to  Bob  Whittaker's  story. 
That  is  the  reason  he  keeps  this  house,  and  all  in  it, 
so  sacred.  Why  couldn't  he  have  married  her,  like  a 
man?  Money!  money!  I  believe  it  is  only  a  curse 
to  half  the  people  in  the  world." 

He  arose,  folded  the  letter,  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket;  then  going  to  the  old  mill,  he  unfastened  his 
horse,  mounted,  and  rode  back  to  Vue  de  1'Eau,  look 
ing  stern,  and  grave,  and  unhappy. 


CHAPTER  XI 


"HE  is  NOT  NAMELESS'' 


OCTOBER  and  November  passed  without  any  event 
of  special  interest  occurring  in  connection  with  any 
•of  our  characters. 

In  Brooklyn,  in  the  home  of  August  Huntress, 
these  were  very  busy  days,  but  every  member  of  the 
household  was  full  of  hope  and  happiness. 

Gladys  and  Geoffrey  saw  but  comparatively  little 
of  each  other,  except  during  the  evening,  for  Geof 
frey  went  early  to  the  office  in  New  York  every 
morning,  and  did  not  return  until  dinner-time  at  six; 
but  both  were  looking  forward  to  the  thirtieth  of 
December,  the  date  set  for  their  union,  with  all  the 
fond  anticipations  of  young  and  loving  hearts. 

Their  engagement  was  formally  announced  im 
mediately  after  it  was  decided  that  Geoffrey  was  to 
go  abroad,  and  cards  for  the  wedding  were  issued 
by  the  first  of  December. 

Congratulations  poured  in  upon  the  young  couple 
from  all  quarters,  and,  the  winter  being  an  excep 
tionally  gay  one,  invitations  abroad  were  numerous 
and  pressing,  their  friends  urging  their  presence, 

132 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  133 

since  they  were  to  lose  their  society  entirely  during 
their  long  absence  in  Europe. 

Everet  Mapleson,  while  reading  the  fashionable 
items  in  a  New  York  paper  one  morning,  came  across, 
the  announcement  of  this  approaching  marriage. 

He  bounded  from  his  chair  with  a  muttered  im 
precation. 

"So  soon !"  he  said,  with  a  frowning  brow.  "They 
are  in  a  great  hurry,  it  seems  to  me;  but  perhaps  the 
trip  abroad  explains  it.  Let  me  see — they  are  to 
be  married  on  the  thirtieth,"  he  continued,  referring 
to  the  paper  again,  "and  will  sail  the  next  day  on  the 
Scythia.  The  Scythia?  That  is  not  a  New  York 
steamer — that  sails  from  Boston;  so,  of  course,  they 
will  have  to  leave  New  York  immediately  after  their 
marriage  to  be  in  season  for  it." 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  with  bent  head 
and  sullen,  thoughtful  brow. 

All  at  once  he  gave  a  violent  start. 

"I  wonder,"  he  muttered,  stopping  short  in  his 
pacing;  "I  wonder  if  it  would  be  possible  to  man 
age  it?" 

He  tossed  back  the  disheveled  hair  from  his  fore 
head;  his  eyes  blazed  with  some  sudden  purpose,  his 
lips  were  set  in  a  firm,  livid  line. 

"I  shall  try  for  it,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  hoarse  whis 
per.  "I  have  everything  to  win  or  lose,  and  I  will 
not  yield  without  a  desperate  struggle." 


134  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

Two  hours  later  his  portmanteau  was  packed,  and 
he  was  taking  leave  of  his  father  and  mother. 

They  expressed  great  surprise  over  his  sudden  de 
parture,  and  protested  against  his  leaving  home  be 
fore  the  holidays,  since  they  had  made  arrangements 
for  a  gay  time  at  Christmas,  chiefly  on  his  account. 

But  he  was  resolute,  and  would  not  be  turned  from 
his  purpose. 

"There  is  to  be  a  great  wedding  in  New  York 
on  the  thirtieth,  for  which  I  am  booked,"  he  ex 
plained,  though  he  did  not  say  who  was  to  be  mar 
ried;  "and  I  would  not  miss  it  for  anything." 

"Well,  but  you  could  easily  reach  New  York  in 
season  for  this  wedding,  even  if  you  do  not  leave  until 
after  Christmas,"  his  mother  pleaded,  for  she  was 
greatly  disturbed  to  have  him  leave  home  at  this 
time,  while  she  suspected,  from  his  gloomy  face,  who 
was  to  be  married,  and  felt  sure  he  was  only  heaping 
up  misery  for  himself  in  going  to  New  York. 

"Perhaps  I  will  come  back  just  for  your  grand 
party  at  Christmas,"  he  said,  to  appease  her  and  be 
allowed  to  get  off  without  further  objections;  "but 
I  must  run  up  North  for  a  week  or  two,  anyhow." 

He  reached  the  city  on  the  morning  of  the  sixth, 
and  proceeded  directly  to  the  club  of  which  he  was 
a  member,  and  where  he  soon  learned  all  that  was 
going  on  among  the  bon  ton. 

During  the  following  day  he  called  upon  Gladys' 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  135 

friend,  Miss  Addle  Loring,  from  whom  he  meant 
to  get  all  the  particulars  of  the  approaching  wedding., 

Miss  Loring  received  him  with  evident  pleasure. 

"Where  have  you  kept  yourself  all  winter,  Mr., 
Mapleson?"  she  questioned,  brightly,  as  she  cor 
dially  gave  him  her  hand.  "I  feared  you  had  de 
serted  us  altogether  since  leaving  college." 

"I  have  been  in  the  South  most  of  the  time,  but 
something,  more  powerful  than  home  influence,  con 
strained  me  to  come  to  New  York  for  a  little  taste 
of  society  and  city  life,"  Everet  returned,  in  a  tone 
and  with  a  look  that  made  the  young  lady's  bright 
eyes  droop  consciously. 

"Will  you  remain  until  the  end  of  the  season?" 

"That  depends,"  he  replied,  with  a  significant 
smile,  which  made  her  heart  flutter  strangely. 

"New  York  is  very  gay  this  winter,  and  there  will 
be  plenty  to  entertain  you  for  as  long  as  you  choose 
to  remain,"  Miss  Loring  promised,  with  a  charming 
smile.  "I  suppose,"  she  added,  "you  have  heard  of 
the  great  wedding  that  is  to  come  off  on  the 
thirtieth?" 

"The  great  wedding!  Whose?"  Everet  ques 
tioned,  feigning  ignorance,  although  the  chief  object 
of  his  call  was  to  learn  all  he  could  about  it. 

"Why,  that  of  your  classmate  and  double,  Mr., 
Geoffrey  Huntress,  and  my  dear  friend,  Gladys.  I 
am  astonished  that  you  have  not  heard  of  it,"  said, 


136  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

Miss  Addie,  really  surprised  that  he  should  not  have 
received  cards  for  the  marriage. 

"Ah!  So  Huntress  is  going  to  marry  Miss 
Gladys,  is  he?  Pray,  what  name  will  he  bestow 
upon  the  lady?"  the  young  man  asked,  with  a  curl 
of  his  handsome  lips. 

"Why,  of  course,  there  will  be  no  change  of  name 
— Geoff  was  legally  adopted  by  Mr.  Huntress,  so 
that  makes  everything  all  right,"  returned  Miss  Lor- 
ing,  looking  a  trifle  displeased  at  the  slur  that  had 
been  cast  at  her  friend's  betrothed. 

"Then  the  groom-elect  has  never  been. able  to  dis 
cover  the  secret  of  his  parentage?"  Everet  remarked, 
inquiringly. 

"I  think  not." 

"Are  you  pleased  with  this  match,  Miss  Loring?" 

"Of  course  I  am — I  think  Geoffrey  Huntress  is 
a  magnificent  man,"  she  affirmed,  emphatically.  "It 
would,  doubtless,  be  a  great  comfort  to  him  to  have 
the  mystery  of  his  birth  solved;  but  it  doesn't  matter, 
really — they  love  each  other  devotedly,  and  will 
make  a  splendid  couple." 

Everet  winced  under  these  last  words,  but  deemed 
it  wiser  to  keep  his  sneers  and  slurs  to  himself. 

"I  suppose  it — the  wedding — will  be  a  very  grand 
affair?"  he  remarked. 

"Very;  there  are  to  be  six  bridesmaids,  of  whom  I 
am  to  be  the  chief,"  responded  Miss  Addie,  with 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  137 

animation.  "They  will  be  married  in  Plymouth 
Church." 

"In  church?"  interposed  Everet,  with  an  eager 
look.  "Will  it  be  in  the  evening?" 

"Yes,  in  the  early  evening — at  five  o'clock — and 
they  will  receive  from  six  until  eight.  Mr.  Huntress 
has  spared  no  expense  to  make  it  a  very  brilliant 
affair.  But  I  am  surprised — I  supposed,  having 
been  a  classmate,  you  would  have  received  cards  for 
the  wedding,  Mr.  Maplcson,"  Miss  Loring  con 
cluded. 

"No,  I  have  not  been  honored.  Will  the  happy 
couple  settle  in  New  York?" 

"Really,  Mr.  Mapleson,  you  are  behind  the 
times,"  laughed  his  companion.  "No,  indeed,  they 
sail  the  next  day,  at  twelve,  for  Europe,  to  be  gone 
for  six  months.  Will  not  that  be  delightful?  If  the 
course  of  true  love  never  ran  smoothly  before,  it  has 
done  so  in  this  case,  for  there  has  been  nothing  to 
mar  it  from  the  beginning." 

Everet  Mapleson's  eyes  gleamed  strangely  at  this, 
and  a  spot  of  bright  color  leaped  into  his  cheeks. 

"On  what  steamer  do  they  sail?"  he  inquired. 

"On  the  Scythia,  from  Boston,  owing  to  some  busi 
ness  connected  with  that  city.  That  is  why  the  mar 
riage  and  reception  are  set  so  early;  they  leave  New 
York  on  an  evening  train,  and  will  arrive  in  Boston 
early  the  next  morning.  Oh !"  concluded  the  young 


138  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

lady,  with  a  sigh,  "I  shall  miss  Gladys  more  than  I 
can  tell  you." 

"No  doubt,"  Everet  observed;  and  then,  after 
conversing  a  few  moments  longer  upon  indifferent 
topics,  having  obtained  all  the  points  he  wished,  he 
arose  to  take  his  leave. 

His  chief  object  in  calling  had  been  to  assure  him 
self  that  he  had  not  been  misinformed  regarding 
any  of  the  details  of  the  approaching  marriage. 

His  next  plan  was  to  meet  Gladys  somewhere,  if 
possible. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  do  this,  by  securing  invita 
tions  to  the  receptions  among  the  elite,  and  a  few 
evenings  later  he  found  her  at  a  fashionable  party  on 
Lexington  avenue. 

She  seemed  lovelier  than  ever,  with  the  rosy  glow 
of  perfect  health  on  her  face,  her  beautiful  eyes 
gleaming  with  happiness,  and  her  lips  wreathed  with 
smiles. 

Her  dress,  on  this  occasion,  was  vastly  becoming, 
consisting  of  a  deep  shade  of  ecru,  embroidered  with 
a  delicate  shade  of  blue  intermingled  with  silver. 
Ornaments  of  silver  in  filigree,  and  set  with  dia 
monds,  were  on  her  neck  and  arms,  while  a  graceful 
aigrette  of  blue  and  white  was  fastened  in  her  hair 
by  a  star,  to  match  her  other  ornaments. 

She  started  slightly  as  she  met  Everet  Mapleson's 
glance  fixed  upon  her.  He  was  so  much  like  Geof- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  139 

frey  that  it  was  almost  impossible,  even  now,  for  her 
to  distinguish  them  apart. 

The  next  moment  he  was  bowing  before  her,  with 
extended  hand. 

"It  seems  a  long  time  since  we  met,  Miss  Hunt 
ress,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  which  deepened  the  color  in 
her  cheeks,  for  it  reminded  her  vividly  of  not  only 
their  last  meeting,  but  also  their  parting. 

But  she  thought  best  to  ignore  it  all,  and  so  re 
turned  his  greeting  with  ladylike  courtesy. 

"I  suppose  you  have  been  in  your  Southern  home, 
Mr.  Mapleson,"  she  said.  "I  should  think  you 
would  hardly  like  to  leave  its  genial  climate  for  our 
rigorous  winter  here." 

"There  are  sometimes  stronger  attractions  than 
a  genial  climate  in  winter,"  he  replied,  with  an  earn 
est  look  into  her  lovely  eyes. 

"Yes,  New  York  is  very  attractive  just  now,"  she 
returned,  determined  not  to  appropriate  his  signifi 
cant  remark  to  herself.  "Do  you  remain  here  long?" 

"I  think  I  may  stay  through  this  month,"  he  an 
swered,  with  an  emphasis  upon  the  last  two  words 
that  brought  the  quick  blood  again  to  her  cheeks,  for 
she  knew  that  he  was  thinking  of  her  approaching 
marriage. 

Still,  she  was  wilfully  obtuse. 

"What!"  she  exclaimed,  archly.  "Can  you  con 
tent  yourself  away  from  home  during  the  holidays?" 

"Yes — at  least  for  this  year.    Miss  Huntress,  will 


140  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

you  give  my  name  a  place  upon  your  dancing-list?" 
he  asked,  glancing  at  the  card  that  was  suspended 
by  a  silken  cord  from  her  corsage.  * 

Gladys  opened  and  held  it  up  before  him,  with  a 
smile. 

It  was  full,  and  she  was  glad  it  happened  so. 

His  face  fell,  for  his  quick  glance  detected  Geof 
frey's  name  against  several  dances. 

"I  am  too  late,  I  perceive,"  he  said,  with  a  bow; 
"but,  perchance  I  may  be  more  fortunate  before 
the  month  is  out." 

Something  in  his  tone  more  than  the  words  made 
her  regard  him  closely,  and  a  sort  of  chill  smote 
her  heart  as  she  marked  the  peculiar  gleam  in  his 
eye  and  the  resolute  lines  about  his  mouth. 

Some  one  claimed  her  just  then,  and,  with  a  polite 
bow,  she  excused  herself  and  left  him,  glad  to  get 
away  from  his  presence. 

The  next  time  they  met  was  more  than  a  week 
later,  at  the  opera. 

Gladys  was  spending  a  few  days  with  her  friend, 
Addie  Loring.  It  was  to  be  her  last  visit  before  her 
marriage,  and  the  two  girls  were  making  the  most 
of  it. 

Mr.  Loring  invited  them  to  accompany  him  to 
hear  Parepa  Rosa,  and  sent  word  to  Geoffrey  to 
join  them;  but  he  had  an  engagement  for  the  first 
half  of  the  evening,  and  could  not;  he  would,  how- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

ever,  join  them  later,  he  said  in  the  note  that  he 
sent  his  betrothed. 

Mrs.  Loring  was  not  well,  and  did  not  feel  equal 
to  going  out,  and  so  her  husband  had  to  be  both 
chaperon  and  escort  for  the  young  ladies. 

Everet  Mapleson  saw  them  the  moment  they  en 
tered  their  box,  while  it  was  not  long  before  Miss 
Loring  discovered  his  vicinity,  when  she  bowed  and 
smiled  most  cordially.  A  moment  later  she  leaned 
forward  and  whispered  to  her  father,  who  nodded 
assent,  and  then  made  a  signal  for  Everet  to  come 
and  join  his  party. 

The  young  man  needed  no  second  invitation,  and 
was  soon  seated  between  the  two  young  ladies,  gaily 
parrying  Miss  Loring's  witty  shots  at  his  having 
come  to  the  opera  all  alone,  when  there  were  so 
many  belles  and  beauties  who  would  have  been  de 
lighted  to  share  the  pleasure  with  him. 

Gladys  drew  herself  a  little  apart.  She  felt  un 
comfortable  to  have  him  there,  under  any  circum 
stances,  while,  too,  she  was  interested  in  the  opera, 
and  it  annoyed  her  to  have  those  around  her  convers 
ing,  even  though  it  was  scarcely  above  their  breath. 

When  the  curtain  went  down,  after  the  second 
act,  Addie  Loring  raised  her  glass  and  began  gaz 
ing  about  her. 

Suddenly  her  face  lighted,  and,  bending  forward, 
she  waved  her  hand  to  some  one  in  the  audience 
near  them. 


uOh,  papa,"  she  said,  turning  eagerly  to  her 
father,  "there  is  Sadie  Nutting !  She  must  have  re 
turned  on  the  last  steamer.  See !  she  is  beckoning 
to  me.  Will  you  take  me  to  her  just  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  while  the  curtain  is  down?  I  am  sure  Gladys 
and  Mr.  Mapleson  will  excuse  us  and  entertain  each 
other  while  we  are  gone,  and  we  won't  be  five 
minutes." 

Mr.  Loring  glanced  at  Everet,  hoping  he  would 
offer  to  escort  his  daughter,  for  he  was  too  comfort 
ably  seated  to  care  to  be  disturbed. 

But  the  young  man  had  no  such  intention;  this  was 
just  the  opportunity  he  had  been  wanting,  ever  since 
he  came  to  New  York,  and  he  meant  to  improve  it, 
even  though  he  should  have  only  "five  minutes."  He 
said: 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  to  Miss  Loring,  "go,  by 
all  means,  to  see  your  friend,  if  you  wish,"  and  he 
watched  the  father  and  daughter  with  a  secret  thrill 
of  triumph  as  they  went  out,  leaving  him  alone  with 
Gladys. 

She  was  greatly  disturbed  by  the  incident. 

She  could  not  blame  Addie,  for  she  knew  that  she 
was  ignorant  of  her  feelings  toward  Everet  Maple- 
son;  but  she  wished,  with  all  her  heart,  that  Geof 
frey  would  come,  so  that  she  need  not  be  alone  with 
Everet. 

The  moment  the  doors  closed  upon  Mr.  Loring 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  1J.3 

and  his  daughter,  Everet  turned  smilingly  toward 
his  companion,  and  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  her. 

"Thank  the  fates,  and  that  giddy  girl,  for  this 
supreme  moment,"  he  began,  in  a  low,  passionate 
tone;  adding:  "Gladys,  have  you  forgotten  our  last 
private  interview  at  Vassar?" 

Gladys  looked  up  at  him,  both  startled  and  in 
dignant. 

"I  should  be  glad  to  forget  it,  Mr.  Mapleson,  if 
you  would  allow  me  to  do  so,  for  your  sake  as  well 
as  my  own,'"  she  returned,  with  cold  dignity. 

"I  do  not  wish  you  to  forget  it,  Gladys,"  he  re 
turned,  with  increasing  fervor,  "for  I  love  you  a 
hundredfold  more  to-night,  and  I  must  unburden 
my  heart  to  you,  or  it  will  burst." 

"Mr.  Mapleson!"  Gladys  said,  half  rising  from 
her  chair,  a  flash  of  anger  in  her  eyes,  "you  shall 
not  say  such  things  to  me;  you  know  you  have  no 
right " 

"I  have  a  right,"  he  interposed,  hotly;  "a  right 
because  of  my  deathless  love  and  my  indomitable 
purpose  to  win  yours  in  return." 

"You  cannot!  how  dare  you?"  Gladys  began 
again,  but  he  would  not  let  her  go  on. 

"I  dare,  because  I  must  dare  or  die!  Oh !  Gladys, 
I  love  you  so !  have  pity  on  me  I"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  died  away  in  an  agonized  whisper,  showing 
how  terribly  in  earnest  he  was. 

The  young  girl  was  deathly  pale  now,  and  trem- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

bling  in  every  limb;  but  she  faced  him  with  blazing 
eyes  and  curling  lips,  her  perfect  form  proudly  erect. 

"You  are  no  gentleman,"  she  said,  scornfully,  "to 
say  such  words  to  one  who,  in  less  than  two  weeks, 
will  be  the  wife  of  another  man;  to  take  advantage 
of  me  during  the  absence  of  my  friends,  and  in  a 
place  like  this  force  such  a  declaration  upon  me." 

"I  could  not  help  it;  I  had  no  other  time;  you 
avoid  me  upon  every  occasion,"  he  returned,  the 
blood  flushing  his  face  hotly  at  her  scorn. 

"I  have  no  choice;  your  looks,  your  acts  all  com 
pel  me  to " 

"I  cannot  help  them — when  I  am  near  you  I  forget 
everything  but  that  I  love  you !"  he  pleaded  in  ex 
cuse. 

"Shame!  Where  is  your  sense  of  honor,  that 
you  persist  in  such  language  to  the  affianced  of  an 
other?"  she  panted. 

"Twice  you  have  thrown  that  in  my  teeth,"  he 
retorted,  fiercely,  and  fast  losing  control  of  himself. 
"Have  you  no  shame,  that  you  confess  yourself  the 
affianced  of  a  nameless  outcast?" 

"He  is  not  nameless,  and  you  have  no  authority 
for  calling  him  an  outcast,"  retorted  Gladys,  proudly, 
all  her  spirit  rising  to  arms  at  this  attack  upon  her 
absent  lover. 

"Haven't  I?"  sneered  the  hot-headed  young  man. 
"Listen.  I  have  been  looking  up  Geoffrey  Dale's 
pedigree,  since  I  saw  you  last.  I  have  traced  him 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

to  his  birthplace.  His  mother  was  a  poor,  but  beau 
tiful  girl,  without  a  home,  without  friends.  She  had 
a  rich  lover,  who  could  not  marry  her  without  sacri 
ficing  a  fortune,  and  he  loved  his  money  too  well  to 
do  that,  so  he  sacrificed  the  girl  instead.  He  took 
her  to  a  remote  mining  district,  where,  hidden  away 
from  every  one  who  ever  knew  her,  she  lived  with 
him  for  one  short  year,  and  died  when  her  child 
was  only  a  month  old.  That  child  was  Geoffrey 
Dale ;  his  mother's  name  was  Annie  Dale,  and  he  has 
no  right  to  any  other,  except  the  one  that  has  been 
given  him  for  charity's  sake.  You  have  a  right  to 
be  proud  of  your  betrothed,  Miss  Huntress." 

"I  am  proud  of  him !"  Gladys  returned,  in  a 
firm,  even  tone.  Astonishment  at  Everet  Maple- 
son  knowing  so  much  about  Geoffrey  had  contributed 
more  toward  calming  her  excited  nerves  than  almost 
anything  else  could  have  done.  "Yes,  I  am  proud 
of  him,"  she  repeated,  with  a  change  of  emphasis, 
"and  you  have  told  me  nothing  new,  Mr.  Mapleson, 
excepting  that  this  young  girl  had  no  home  or  friends, 
and  that  the  man  who  took  her  to  New  Mexico  was 
rich,  and  wilfully  wronged  her.  Indeed,  I  know 
even  more  than  you  have  told  me." 

"More!  Do  you  know  who  his  father  was?" 
Everet  Mapleson  exclaimed,  with  a  start. 

"No,  nor  do  I  wish  to,  if  he  was  guilty  of  the 
atrocious  act  you  have  named,"  Gladys  returned, 
with  withering  scorn.  "But  the  sin  will  some  day 


146  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

recoil  upon  his  own  head;  it  can  never  change  my 
regard  for  one  who  is  innately  noble  and  true." 

"And  you  do  not  shrink  from  becoming  the  wife 
of  one  upon  whom  shame  has  rested  from  the  hour 
of  his  birth?"  demanded  Everet  Mapleson,  regard 
ing  the  beautiful  girl  with  astonishment. 

"No,"  she  replied,  steadfastly;  "no  shame  rests 
upon  him;  that  all  belongs  to  the  preceding  genera 
tion;  but  I  should  shrink  with  loathing  from  the  man 
who  betrayed  Annie  Dale,  as  you  represent,  were  he 
lord  or  prince — he  is  only  worthy  of  my  contempt, 
and  I  would  scorn  him  as  I  would  the  veriest  black 
leg  in  this  city." 

The  young  man  flushed  hotly.  It  was  not  pleasant 
to  listen  to  such  words,  believing  what  he  did;  they 
touched  a  sensitive  spot. 

"But  this  man  of  whom  I  have  told  you  is  a  gen 
tleman,  nevertheless,"  he  said. 

"A  gentleman?" 

The  words  were  uttered  in  the  quietest  possible 
tone,  but  the  contempt  which  trembled  through  it 
was  matchless,  and  made  the  young  man  wince  as 
under  a  lash. 

"Your  distinctions  are  more  nice  than  wise,  Miss 
Huntress;  but,  mark  my  words,  you  shall  never 
marry  this  man's  illegitimate  son!"  he  hissed,  driven 
almost  to  a  frenzy  by  her  words,  her  look,  and  tone. 

She  turned  upon  him,  her  face  colorless,  but  with 
eyes  gleaming  like  two  points  of  fire. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  14-7 

"You  insult  me,  sir!  You  insult  one  who  is  a 
hundredfold  more  noble  than  yourself,  by  the  use 
of  such  vile  language.  But,"  and  she  raised  one 
daintily  gloved  hand  to  enforce  her  words,  "were 
his  name  doubly  tainted  by  the  sin  of  others,  it  could 
not  smirch  the  man  I  honor — the  man  I  love.  It 
will  be  the  proudest  day  of  my  life  when  I  wed  Geof 
frey  Dale  Huntress,  as  I  shall,  in  spite  of  all  that  you 
have  told  me  to-night,  ay,  even  though  you  should 
do  your  worst,  and  proclaim  it  from  every  house 
top  in  this  city." 

She  was  glorious,  in  her  haughty  pride  and  indig 
nation,  as  she  gave  utterance  to  these  loyal  senti 
ments,  and  Everet  Mapleson  instinctively  shrank 
before  her  with  a  sense  of  shame  and  humiliation. 
At  that  moment  the  doors  behind  them  swung  open, 
and  Geoffrey  himself  entered  the  box. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  THREAT  AND  A  WEDDING  RING 

GLADYS'  first  impulse,  upon  beholding  her  lover, 
was  to  spring  toward  him,  denounce  the  man  who 
had  so  insulted  her  and  him,  and  demand  to  be  con 
ducted  from  his  presence. 

But  her  judgment  told  her  that  this  would  be  very 
unwise;  there  must  be  no  scene  in  that  public  place; 
there  must  be  no  quarrel  between  these  two  men, 
and  perhaps  it  would  be  better  that  Geoffrey  should 
never  know  that  Everet  Mapleson  held  the  secret 
of  his  birth.  She  knew  that  he  would  never  rest 
until  he  had  wrung  it  from  him,  and  that,  she  be 
lieved,  would  never  be  done  without  bitter  feelings, 
and  perhaps  strife. 

So,  with  a  mighty  effort,  she  controlled  herself, 
drew  her  cloak  about  her  shoulders  to  hide  the  heav 
ing  of  her  bosom,  as  she  arose  and  turned  a  smiling, 
though  still  pale  face,  toward  her  lover. 

"You  have  come,  Geoffrey;  I  am  very  glad.  You 
will  recognize  an  old  classmate  in  Mr.  Mapleson," 
she  said,  as  she  moved  her  chair  farther  into  the 

148 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  149 

shadow  of  the  draperies  and  made  room  for  Geof 
frey  between  herself  and  her  other  companion. 

Everet  regarded  the  girl  with  wondering  admira 
tion.  He  knew  that  she  was  laboring  under  intense 
excitement,  and  that  it  required  no  light  effort  on 
her  part  to  conceal  it.  He  understood  her  motives — 
that  she  wished  to  avoid  a  quarrel  and  a  scene,  and 
he  thought  her  tact  inimitable. 

Geoffrey  greeted  his  former  college-mate  courte 
ously,  which  greeting  Mapleson  returned  with  a  cold, 
rather  supercilious  bow.  He  was  always  conscious 
of  his  own  moral  inferiority  w7hen  in  Geoffrey's  pres 
ence,  and  the  feeling  galled  him  excessively. 

Geoffrey  saw  at  once,  in  spite  of  Gladys'  efforts  to 
conceal  it,  that  something  had  gone  wrong  with  her, 
and  he  rightly  guessed  that  Everet  Mapleson  had 
been  the  cause  of  it.  He  gently  seated  her,  and  then 
placed  himself  beside  her,  while  Mr.  Loring  and  his 
daughter  returned  at  that  moment,  and  the  party 
settled  themselves  very  comfortably  for  the  remain 
der  of  the  evening. 

Everet  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  Miss  Lor 
ing,  much  to  that  young  lady's  secret  delight;  her 
father  gave  his  attention  entirely  to  the  stage,  thus 
leaving  Geoffrey  and  Gladys  to  themselves. 

"What  is  it,  dear?  what  has  troubled  you?"  Geof 
frey  asked,  bending  tenderly  toward  his  betrothed, 
as  he  became  more  conscious  of  the  difficulty  she  was 
laboring  under  to  retain  her  composure. 


150  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

Gladys  stole  one  little  hand  confidingly  into  his, 
under  cover  of  her  opera  cloak. 

"Never  mind,  Geoff,  now  that  I  have  you  here;  I 
will  tell  you  some  other  time,"  she  whispered,  as 
she  involuntarily  turned  her  still  flashing  eyes  to 
ward  young  Mapleson,  while  a  slight  shiver  ran 
through  her  frame. 

Geoffrey's  glance  followed  hers,  and  his  face 
clouded. 

"Has  he  dared "  he  began,  sternly. 

"Hush !"  she  returned ;  "it  is  all  past ;  he  will  never 
dare  again." 

She  saw  that  Geoffrey  needed  but  a  word  to  make 
him  demand  an  explanation  of  his  rival,  and  she 
feared  the  worst  from  a  meeting  between  them;  so 
she  resolved  that  she  would  not  tell  him  what  Everet 
had  told  her  regarding  his  parentage;  at  least,  not 
until  after  their  marriage;  perhaps,  when  they  were 
on  the  ocean,  where  it  would  be  impossible  for  him 
to  take  any  aggressive  measures  until  time  had  served 
to  cool  his  anger,  she  might  reveal  to  him  what  she 
had  learned. 

So  she  tried  to  smile  and  appear  interested  in  the 
opera,  while  every  moment  she  wished  it  would  end 
so  that  she  might  be  released  from  that  terrible  con 
straint. 

It  was  over  at  last,  to  her  intense  relief. 

Everet  Mapleson  escorted  Miss  Loring  from  the 
building,  but  when  the  party  reached  the  sidewalk 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  151 

they  found  such  a  crowd  before  them  that  they  were 
obliged  to  step  back  and  wait  for  it  to  disperse  be 
fore  they  could  get  to  their  carnage. 

In  doing  this,  Everet  Mapleson  had  managed  so 
that  he  should  stand  close  beside  Gladys,  for  he  had 
determined  to  fire  a  parting  shot  at  her. 

He  had  been  covertly  watching  her  ever  since  their 
interview,  and  her  attitude  of  trust  and  confidence 
toward  Geoffrey  had  been  almost  maddening  to  him. 

She  was  beautiful  beyond  comparison  when  she 
faced  him  in  her  indignation,  defending  her  absent 
lover,  and  resenting  the  insult  offered  to  herself;  he 
had  never  seen  her  so  spirited  before,  and  it  lent 
an  added  charm  to  her  fascinations,  while  he  was 
filled  with  impotent  rage  that  he  was  powerless  to 
awaken  any  feelings  in  her  heart  for  him,  save  those 
of  scorn  and  contempt. 

"Why  should  he  win?"  he  cried  within  himself, 
as  he  marked  Geoffrey's  air  of  tender  proprietor 
ship;  "he  who  has  not  even  a  name  to  offer  her,  while 
I,  who  am  heir  to  the  proud  escutcheon  of  Mapleson, 
and  to  a  double  fortune,  perhaps  a  triple  one,  if  he 
never  discovers  who  he  is,  am  able  to  excite  noth 
ing  but  aversion  and  contempt.  I  swear  I  will  not 
submit  to  it,  and  I  will  find  some  way  to  part  them, 
even  now.  He  has  crossed  my  path  too  many  times. 
I  have  never  forgiven  him  on  the  old  score,  and  I 
will  never  forgive  him  for  being  an  interloper  in  my 


152  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

All  this  was  in  his  mind  as  he  stood  close  beside 
the  young  bride-elect,  while  waiting  for  Mr.  Lor- 
ing's  carriage,  and  some  evil  spirit  possessed  him  to 
assail  her  again. 

"Miss  Huntress,"  he  whispered,  so  close  to  her 
ear  that  no  one  could  possibly  hear  him  in  the  tumult 
around  them,  "doubtless  you  have  heard  that  old 
saying,  'There  is  many  a  slip  'twixt  cup  and  lip.'  ' 

Gladys  never  noticed  him  by  so  much  as  a  glance. 
She  might  have  been  some  beautiful  statue,  and  deaf 
to  all  sounds,  for  any  evidence  that  she  gave  of  hav 
ing  heard  him.  And  yet  he  knew  she  could  not  have 
falied  to  catch  every  word  that  he  had  uttered. 

His  blood  began  to  boil  at  being  thus  ignored. 

"Do  you  imagine  that  I  shall  tamely  submit  to 
see  another  man  win  you,  and  he  so  far  beneath  you  ? 
//  shall  never  be!" 

Gladys  turned  at  this,  and  looked  straight  into  his 
eyes,  and  actually  smiled — a  smile  that  drove  him 
almost  to  a  frenzy;  it  was  like  a  winter's  sunbeam 
reflected  from  ice — sharp,  dazzling,  chilling. 

"The  future  tense  is  not  applicable  in  this  case, 
Mr.  Mapleson,"  she  retorted,  in  as  icy  a  tone,  while 
the  air  with  which  she  settled  her  small  hand  more 
firmly  within  her  lover's  arm  plainly  said,  "I  am 
already  won!" 

Everet  Mapleson  ground  his  teeth  in  baffled  rage. 
It  was  evident  that  in  an  open  battle  Miss  Huntress 
was  too  much  for  him. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  153 

"Wait,"  he  whispered  again;  "the  thirtieth  may 
tell  a  different  story;  at  all  events,  you  are  warned.'* 

She  did  not  deign  to  notice  his  threat,  and,  an 
opening  now  presenting  itself,  Mr.  Lorin^  led  the 
way  to  the  carriage,  where,  after  assisting  his  com 
panion  to  enter,  Mr.  Mapleson  took  his  leave  of  the 
party  and  went  his  way. 

Geoffrey  was  very  much  disturbed  when  Gladys 
told  him  that  Everet  Mapleson  had  again  presumed 
to  address  words  of  love  to  her — for  she  had  de 
cided  that  this  was  all  the  explanation  of  the  affair 
at  the  opera  that  she  would  give  him  at  present — 
and  it  required  all  her  power  of  persuasion  to  pre 
vent  him  from  demanding  an  apology  for  the  insult. 

"Let  it  pass,  dear;  pray  let  us  have  no  trouble  at 
this  time,"  she  had  urged. 

"But  you  are  almost  my  wife,  Gladys,  and  it  is  a 
terrible  affront  to  me  as  well  as  to  you,"  Geoffrey 
returned,  hotly. 

"He  is  so  far  beneath  you,  Geoff,  morally,  that 
I  cannot  bear  to  have  you  lower  yourself  enough  to 
notice  him,  and  believe  me,  he  received  a  lesson  that 
he  will  not  soon  forget,"  Gladsy  concluded,  with  a 
spirit  and  energy  that  both  amused  and  delighted 
Geoffrey,  who  well  knew  what  his  betrothed  was 
capable  of  when  once  thoroughly  aroused,  and  he 
could  imagine  something  of  the  scorn  which  the  of 
fender  in  question  had  called  down  upon  his  devoted 
head  by  his  presumption.  So  he  finally  promised 


154  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

that  he  would  not  agitate  the  matter  further,  and  he 
realized  that  it  might  result  in  a  scandal  that  would 
prove  very  annoying  just  at  that  time. 

It  seemed,  too,  as  if  Everet  Mapleson  himself 
had  no  desire  to  come  in  contact  with  his  successful 
rival,  for  he  suddenly  dropped  out  of  society,  and 
was  seen  no  more  during  the  interval  between  that 
occurrence  at  the  opera  and  the  thirtieth. 

He  was  greatly  missed,  however,  by  many  of  the 
languishing  belles,  for  he  was  esteemed  "a  great 
catch,"  and  had  been  most  industriously  angled  for 
by  numerous  anxious  mammas,  and  scheming  fathers 
with  a  doubtful  bank  account. 

Miss  Addie  Loring,  perhaps,  really  took  his  sud 
den  and  unaccountable  absence  more  to  heart  than 
any  one  else,  for  she  had  secretly  begun  to  entertain 
a  tender  liking  for  him. 

During  the  last  week  before  the  wedding,  that 
event  became  the  chief  topic  of  the  day  in  the  circle 
in  which  Gladys  and  Geoffrey  moved,  for  the  match 
was  considered  a  most  romantic  one,  and  both  par 
ties  were  especial  favorites,  while  for  brilliancy  and 
magnitude  it  was  to  be  the  affair  of  the  season. 

Gifts  of  every  description  poured  in  upon  the 
young  couple,  for  whom  their  friends  seemed  unable 
to  do  enough  to  manifest  their  regard. 

"Mamma,  I  have  silver  and  china  enough  to  set  up 
four  establishments;  what  shall  I  do  with  it  all?" 
Gladys  laughingly  remarked,  one  morning,  after  the 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  155 

arrival  of  numerous  packages  and  cases.  "While  as 
for  jewelry,  bric-a-brac,  and  ornaments,"  she  con 
tinued,  "I  shall  never  have  room  nor  opportunity  to 
display  them  all." 

"You  have  been  most  lavishly  remembered,  dear," 
returned  Mrs.  Huntress;  but  she  sighed  while  she 
smiled  over  the  evidences  of  her  daughter's  popu 
larity,  as  she  thought  of  the  care  and  responsibility 
which  it  would  entail  upon  her  in  the  future. 

"It  is  very,  very  nice  to  be  remembered  by  one's 
friends,  and  pleasant  to  know  that  one  has  so  many," 
Gladys  said,  thoughtfully  taking  up  a  delicate  vase, 
which  rude  handling  would  have  crushed  to  atoms, 
but  which  she  knew  represented  a  large  amount  of 
money,  "but  if  they  would  only  give  me  some  simple 
little  token,  just  to  show  that  they  really  care  for 
me,  I  should  not  feel  quite  so  overwhelmed.  Per 
haps  I  am  too  sensitive  and  notional,  but  I  think  the 
weight  of  obligation  which  is  sometimes  imposed 
upon  brides  is  almost  frightful,  that  is,  unless  they 
marry — as  I  am  not  doing — men  who  can  enable 
them  to  indulge  in  similar  extravagance  in  return 
later  on." 

"There  is  a  good  deal  of  sense  in  what  you  say, 
Gladys,"  returned  her  mother,  "but  these  beautiful 
and  expensive  things  represent  branches  of  indus 
tries,  and  somebody  must  purchase  them  in  order 
that  certain  classes  of  artisans  may  live.  It  is  hard 
to  know  where  to  draw  the  line  in  these  things.  It 


156  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

would  not  be  so  questionable,  though,  if  people 
would  be  really  honest  in  their  gifts  and  offer  only 
what  they  could  afford,  instead  of  trying  to  outdo 
others  from  a  feeling  of  vanity." 

But,  in  spite  of  these  practical  discussions,  there 
seemed  to  be  no  end  to  the  accumulation  of  wedding 
gifts  up  to  the  last  moment. 

The  wedding-day  dawned,  a  bright,  mild  winter 
morning,  and  every  hour  was  filled  with  preparations 
for  the  important  ceremony  that  was  to  occur  early 
in  the  evening. 

Geoffrey  saw  but  little  of  his  betrothed  that  day, 
for  he  had  many  duties  to  attend  to  relating  to  their 
departure,  and  last  instructions  to  receive  regarding 
the  business  he  had  undertaken.  But  about  two  in 
the  afternoon  he  came  home  to  find  Gladys  just  going 
to  her  room,  from  which  she  would  not  come  forth 
again  until  she  was  prepared  for  her  marriage. 

"I  am  only  just  in  time,  I  perceive,  to  take  leave 
of  Miss  Gladys  Huntress,"  he  said,  smiling  fondly 
upon  her,  as  he  drew  her  into  the  music-room,  and 
shut  the  door,  for  a  few  moments'  private  chat  with 
her. 

"You  do  not  look  more  than  sixteen,"  he  con 
tinued,  touching  the  light  rings  of  hair  that  lay  on 
her  forehead,  and  smoothing  the  great  satiny  braid, 
that  had  been  allowed  to  hang,  like  a  schoolgirl's, 
down  her  back,  until  the  hair-dresser  should  come, 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  157 

"and  very  little  as  if  a  few  hours  would  make  you 
somebody's — wife." 

Gladys  flushed  at  that  last  word,  though  a  happy 
little  laugh  rippled  from  her  lips. 

"Perhaps  I  shall  appear  more  matronly  by  and 
by,"  she  said.  "It  is  possible  that  putting  'Mrs.' 
before  my  name  may  make  quite  a  change.  How 
queer  it  will  seem  to  be  married  and  yet  be  Gladys 
Huntress  still?" 

Geoffrey's  face  clouded,  and  a  pang  shot  through 
his  heart. 

"I  wish  it  could  be  otherwise,  darling,  I  wish  I 
had  an  honored  name  to  give  you,"  he  said,  regret 
fully. 

Gladys  put  up  her  hand  and  drew  down  his  head 
until  their  lips  met. 

"Dear  Geoff,  forgive  me,"  she  pleaded,  in  a  tone 
of  self-reproach,  "I  was  very  thoughtless  to  make 
such  a  speech.  I  shall  be  just  as  happy  to  be  called 
Mrs.  Geoffrey  Dale  Huntress,  as  anything  else;  my 
pride  will  not  consist  in  my  name,  but  in  my  hus 
band." 

His  arms  closed  about  her  more  fondly. 

He  knew  that  she  loved  him  with  all  the  strength 
of  her  pure  and  noble  nature — that  she  had  chosen 
him  from  among  the  many  admirers  who  would 
gladly  have  bestowed  a  proud  name,  as  well  as  for 
tune,  upon  her,  and  that  he  ought  to  be  content. 

But  he  was  not;  it  rankled,  like  a  thorn  in  his  heart, 


158  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

that  he  had  no  name  to  give  her — that  for  want  of 
one  he  was  compelled  to  assume  hers. 

Neither  he  nor  Gladys  had  ever  been  told  of  her 
adoption;  both  believed  that  she  was  August  and 
Alice  Huntress'  own  child,  and,  somehow,  a  feeling 
of  obligation,  that  was  almost  degradation,  would 
now  and  then  assail  him,  that  he  was  obliged  to 
identify  himself  in  this  way. 

"Geoffrey,"  Gladys  continued,  seeing  the  cloud 
still  on  his  face,  "do  not  allow  so  slight  a  thing  to 
cast  a  shadow  over  our  joy  to-day.  I  am  so  happy 
— life  looks  so  bright  to  me,  that  I  am  almost  afraid 
it  is  all  a  dream,  and  I  shall  wake  up  to  find  it  all 
gone  from  my  grasp." 

He  could  not  resist  her  bright,  tender  face,  nor 
the  beautiful,  trustful  eyes  as  they  were  raised  to  his. 

"My  own  love,"  he  replied,  his  face  clearing,  "it 
is  no  dream  to  either  of  us — it  is  all  a  delightful 
reality,  and  anticipation  of  the  happiness  before  us, 
during  the  coming  six  months,  is  like  a  poem  to  me. 
But,"  he  added,  "'I  suppose  I  must  not  detain  you 
here — have  you  everything  that  you  need  or  wish 
for  to-night?" 

"I  believe  so;  but  truly,  Geoff,  I  wish  it  were  all 
over,"  Gladys  confessed,  clinging  to  him.  "Some 
times  I  have  been  sorry  that  we  agreed  to  have  all 
this  fuss  and  excitement.  I  feel  as  if  the  occasion  is 
almost  too  sacred  for  the  gaze  of  the  curious,  and 
to  be  mixed  up  so  with  show,  dress,  and  so  many 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  159 

other  petty  details.  If  we  could  only  have  just  a 
few  of  our  especial  friends  with  us,  and  say  our  vows 
quietly  and  solemnly,  right  here  at  home,  I  believe  I 
should  like  it  much  better." 

This  had  been  Geoffrey's  feeling  all  along;  but 
it  was  Mr.  Huntress'  desire  to  have  a  brilliant  wed 
ding,  and  he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  oppose 
any  reasonable  wish  of  one  who  had  been  so  kind 
to  him. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  "we  can  comfort  ourselves 
with  one  thought;  the  'fuss  and  excitement'  will  not 
last  long,  then  we  shall  have  each  other  all  to  our 
selves.  But,  darling,  see  here."  He  drew  a  tiny 
case  from  his  pocket,  and,  opening  it,  disclosed  a 
heavy  gold  circlet  resting  in  its  bed  of  velvet — • 
"have  you  any  idea  how  strong  this  little  fetter  is 
going  to  be? — only  death  will  ever  break  the  tie  that 
it  will  cement." 

Gladys  bent  forward  to  look  at  the  mystic  symbol, 
the  vivid  color  surging  to  her  brow. 

"Oh,  Geoff!  what  a  heavy  one;  is  it  marked?" 
she  said. 

"Yes,  and  that  is  why  I  show  it  to  you — it  may 
not  be  marked  in  a  way  to  please  you,"  and  he  held 
it  toward  her  for  examination. 

"Please  take  it  out  yourself  and  let  me  see — I  do 
not  want  to  touch  it,"  she  said,  drawing  slightly 
away. 

He  laughed. 


160  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"Why,  you  dear  little  goose!  are  you  supersti 
tious?" 

"N — o;  but  somehow  I  do  not  wish  to  touch  it 
until  after  you  have  put  it  where  it  belongs,"  she 
answered,  softly. 

He  removed  it  from  the  case,  holding  it  so  that 
she  could  see  the  engraving  on  its  inside  surface,  and 
she  read,  "G.  D.  to  G.  H.  Dec.  30,  18— ." 

"G.  D. !"  she  repeated,  looking  up  questioningly. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  gravely.  "Forgive  me  for  re 
ferring  again  to  an  unpleasant  topic,  but  I  could  not 
bring  my  mind  to  add  another  H.  there.  If  I  have 
a  right  to  an  honored  name,  and  find  it  out  some 
time,  then  I  will  have  the  initial  inserted — you  see, 
I  have  had  space  left  for  it.  Do  you  mind?" 

"No,  Geoff,"  Gladys  returned,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  though  her  heart  sank  at  his  words,  as  she 
remembered  what  Everet  Mapleson  had  told  her, 
"you  have  done  perfectly  right  to  mark  the  ring  as 
you  wish,  and,  of  course,  no  one  save  ourselves  ever 
need  know  anything  about  it." 

He  put  it  away  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  approve,  dear,"  he  said,  smil 
ing,  "and  now  mind  that  your  glove  is  properly  ar 
ranged,  and  no  other  ring  on  this,  my  especial  finger; 
for  this  ring  must  never  come  off  after  I  have  once 
put  it  on,  unless  we  find  another  initial  to  add  to  the 
others.  Now,  good-by,  love,  for  the  next  three 
hours,  until  we  meet  again  at  the  church." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  WEDDING 

GLADYS  went  to  her  room  with  a  sweet  and  tender 
gravity  on  her  beautiful  face. 

Every  passing  moment  made  her  feel  more  sen 
sibly  the  sacredness  of  the  vows  that  she  was  about 
to  take  upon  herself,  and  the  responsibilities  she 
was  so  soon  to  assume. 

"I  know  this  great  joy  is  far  more  than  I  deserve," 
she  murmured.  "I  cannot  understand  why  no  shadow 
has  ever  been  allowed  to  cloud  my  life,  when  so 
many  are  born  to  a  lot  of  sorrow,  trial,  and  toil.  I 
will  try  to  lift  the  burden  from  some  hearts  in  the 
future;  I  will  not  live  all  for  self,  but  reflect  some 
of  my  own  happiness,  if  I  can,  to  brighten  other 
lives  less  favored  than  mine." 

Could  any  bride,  on  the  eve  of  her  marriage,  have 
made  a  holier  resolve  than  this? 

Very  lovely  she  looked,  when  she  came  forth  from 
her  chamber,  in  her  spotless  wedding  attire. 

Her  simple,  yet  elegant  dress,  of  white  ottoman 
silk,  was  made  en  tram,  and  its  only  garnishing  was 
the  voluminous  vail,  which  covered  her  from  head 

161 


162  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

to  foot,  and  was  caught,  here  and  there,  in  graceful 
draperies,  with  clusters  of  orange  blossoms  and 
lilies-of-the-valley. 

Unlike  many  brides,  she  was  not  pale,  but  a  deli 
cate  and  lovely  color  was  on  her  cheek.  Her  eyes 
were  brilliant  and  expressive  with  the  deep  and  holy 
joy  that  filled  her  heart,  and  she  was  calm  with  that 
perfect  content  which  an  unwavering  confidence  and 
affection  alone  could  give. 

She  rode  alone  with  her  father,  who  was  to  give 
her  away,  to  Plymouth  Church,  where  Geoffrey  was 
to  meet  her.  He  was  not  there  when  they  arrived, 
although  he  left  the  house  some  time  previous  to 
their  own  departure,  and  they  waited  for  him  in  the 
vestibule,  but  somewhat  anxiously,  as  it  was  already 
five  minutes  past  the  hour  set  for  the  ceremony. 

At  last  there  was  a  slight  commotion  about  the 
door,  and  a  voice  was  heard  to  say: 

"He  has  come!    All  is  well  now!" 

Gladys  looked  up  as  he  came  forward,  and  thought 
he  looked  a  trifle  pale  and  excited,  but  it  might  be 
because  the  light  was  dim,  while  her  vail  rendered 
everything  a  little  indistinct. 

He  nodded  and  smiled  reassuringly  at  her,  how 
ever;  they  would  not  let  him  come  near  her,  for  her 
dress  was  all  arranged  to  go  in,  and  must  not  be 
disturbed,  while  her  maidens  were  hovering  about 
her  like  a  band  of  fairies  around  their  queen,  and, 
with  girlish  superstition,  they  waved  him  off,  saying 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  163 

he  must  not  speak  to  her  again  until  after  the  cere 
mony. 

Mr.  Huntress  interviewed  him  regarding  the  de 
lay,  and  then  came  and  told  Gladys  it  had  been 
caused  by  a  change  in  clergymen  at  the  last  moment. 
Their  own  pastor  had  been  summoned  by  telegraph 
to  a  brother  who  was  lying  at  the  point  of  death,  only 
a  little  more  than  an  hour  previous,  and  had  been 
obliged  to  send  a  stranger — a  friend  who  happened 
to  be  visiting  in  his  family — to  officiate  in  his  place. 

This  was  the  only  shadow  that  had  marred  the 
young  bride's  joy  that  day.  She  dearly  loved  her 
noble  pastor,  and  was  deeply  disappointed  not  to 
have  him  pronounce  her  nuptial  benediction. 

But  she  had  no  time  to  express  it,  for  Mr.  Hun 
tress  gave  the  signal  to  the  ushers  to  throw  open  the 
church  doors,  while  the  groom,  followed  by  his  at 
tendants,  passed  down  the  one  aisle,  and  Gladys,  on 
her  father's  arm  and  attended  by  her  maids,  went 
down  another. 

They  all  met  at  the  altar,  where  the  strange  clergy 
man  was  already  awaiting  them. 

Everybody  wondered  at  the  self-possession  and 
the  lovely  bloom  of  the  bride. 

But  the  secret  of  it  was  that  Gladys  forgot  herself 
and  all  her  surroundings;  forgot  the  crowd  of  wit 
nesses  behind  her;  the  curious  glances — the  place — 
everything  in  the  solemn  moment  and  the  vows  she 
was  plighting. 


164-  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

The  clergyman,  stranger  though  he  was,  made  the 
service  very  beautiful  and  impressive,  while  the  few 
words  of  kindly  advice  and  congratulation  which  he 
uttered  at  its  close,  when  he  pronounced  the  young 
couple  husband  and  wife,  were  exceedingly  apt  and 
well  chosen. 

Then  it  was  all  over,  and  those  two,  before  whom 
life  seemed  reaching  out  so  fair  and  full  of  promise, 
passed  slowly  down  the  center  aisle,  every  eye  fol 
lowing  them,  while  every  lip  seemed  to  have  some 
thing  to  say  in  praise  of  them. 

Gladys  was  very  quiet  as  her  husband  put  her  into 
the  carriage,  for  the  solemnity  of  the  service  was 
still  upon  her.  He,  too,  seemed  in  a  like  mood,  for 
he  only  gathered  the  hand  that  wore  his  ring  close 
within  his  own,  and  thus  they  sat,  mute  from  excess 
of  joy,  during  their  drive  home. 

Very  tenderly  the  young  husband  helped  his  bride 
to  alight,  led  her  up  the  steps,  never  relinquishing 
her  hand  until  he  placed  her  beneath  the  magnificent 
arch  at  the  lower  end  of  the  drawing-room,  where 
they  were  to  receive  the  congratulations  of  their 
friends. 

They  had  driven  back  very  rapidly,  and  thus  they 
had  gained  several  minutes  to  themselves  before  the 
arrival  of  any  others. 

"My  darling!  my  wife!"  said  the  exultant  young 
husband,  as  he  stretched  forth  his  arms  to  gather  his 
beautiful  bride  to  his  breast. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  165 

Gladys  looked  up  with  a  startled,  searching  glance. 
Something  in  his  tone  had  struck  strangely  on  her 
ears.  She  saw  that  he  was  still  somewhat  pale,  but 
his  whole  face  was  lighted  with  triumph. 

"Geoff "  she  began,  then  the  word  suddenly 

froze  on  her  lips,  a  bewildered  look  shot  in  her  eyes, 
when  all  at  once  she  started  away  from  him,  flinging 
out  her  arms  with  a  wild  gesture  of  horror  and  loath 
ing,  her  face  as  white  as  her  dress,  her  eyes  almost 
starting  from  her  head. 

"EVERET  MAPLESON!  Oh!  heaven!  how  came 
you  here?"  she  shrieked. 

He  strode  up  to  her,  the  look  of  triumph  still  on 
his  pale  face. 

"Because  I  have  a  right  to  be  here — beside  my 
wife!" 

"Never!  never!"  she  panted,  wildly.  "You  have 
no  right — I  am  not  your  wife!" 

"But,  my  darling,  you  are.  I  have  never  left  your 
side  for  an  instant  since  we  were  pronounced,  before 
God  and  man,  to  be  husband  and  wife.  You  are 
mine,  Gladys !  by  the  laws  of  the  land,  as  well  as  by 
the  laws  of  God!  You  plighted  your  vows  to  me  in 
the  presence  of  hundreds  of  witnesses,  and  I  shall 
claim  you  before  all  the  world!" 

She  never  moved  while  he  was  saying  this.  She 
stood  looking  at  him  with  that  wild,  incredulous  light 
still  in  her  eyes,  that  deadly  whiteness  on  her  face, 


166  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

her  arms  still  outstretched  in  that  attitude  of  horror 
and  loathing. 

She  was  like  a  beautiful  piece  of  sculpture  that 
had  suddenly  been  transformed  from  a  happy,  living 
being  into  pulseless  marble  by  the  blighting  influence 
of  some  congealing  wand. 

"Can  you  not  believe  it,  and  be  sensible?"  Everet 
Mapleson — for  it  was  really  he — went  on  rapidly, 
for  the  sound  of  wheels  from  without  came  to  him, 
and  he  knew  that  the  room  would  be  full  in  a  few 
moments.  "Do  not  make  a  scene.  You  are  mine, 
and  no  earthly  power  can  sever  the  bonds  that  unite 
us !  I  love  you  madly !  I  worship  you  !  There  is 
nothing  I  will  not  do  to  prove  my  devotion  to  you ! 
I  have  given  you  a  proud  name;  I  have  wealth,  po 
sition,  influence,  and  I  am  your  slave  if  you  will  give 
me  but  a  crumb  of  love  upon  which  to  feast  my 
hungry  heart.  Gladys,  again  I  implore  you  not  to 
make  a  scene !  Receive  your  friends  as  if  nothing 
unforeseen  had  happened,  and  they  will  never  sus 
pect;  and  to-morrow  we  will  go  away  over  the  ocean, 
and  leave  the  world  to  get  over  its  astonishment  as 
best  it  can." 

He  paused,  for  the  horror,  the  despair  on  her 
face,  which  grew  every  instant  more  terrible,  filled 
him  with  fear  and  dismay. 

She  did  not  stir;  she  was  as  if  frozen  in  that  at 
titude.  She  simply  stood  staring  into  his  face,  her 
own  as  rigid  as  a  stone,  but  with  such  suffering,  such 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  167 

anguish,  in  that  fixed  gaze  as  he  had  never  seen  de 
picted  in  human  eyes  before. 

Steps  and  voices  sounded  in  the  hall.  He  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress  hurrying  in, 
to  be  the  first  to  congratulate  their  darling. 

Another  minute,  and  he  knew  there  must  come  a 
fearful  disclosure  and  explosion. 

He  moved  a  step  nearer  the  motionless  girl  and 
attempted  to  take  one  of  those  outstretched  hands 
in  his. 

His  touch  seemed  to  unlock  those  tense  nerves  and 
muscles  as  if  by  magic. 

She  shrank  away  from  him  with  a  low,  shuddering 
cry,  and  then,  without  word  or  warning,  fell  for 
ward,  and  would  have  dropped  to  the  floor  had  he 
not  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

Mr.  Huntress,  who  entered  the  room  at  that  mo 
ment,  sprang  forward,  with  a  cry  of  alarm. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  his  attention  all 
concentrated  upon  Gladys,  and  never  suspecting  the 
dreadful  trick  that  had  been  played  upon  them  all. 

"The  excitement  has  been  too  much  for  her,  I 
fear,"  Everet  responded,  in  a  low  tone. 

Mr.  Huntress  took  the  senseless  girl  from  him, 
saying: 

"Open  that  door  behind  you;  we  must  get  her 
away  before  that  crowd  comes  pouring  in.  My  poor 
girl!  what  can  have  caused  this  unusual  fainting 
turn?" 


1G8  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

Everet  eagerly  obeyed  his  command,  and  Gladys 
was  borne  into  a  small  sitting-room,  and  laid  upon 
a  soft  there. 

The  next  moment  Mrs.  Huntress'  anxious  face  ap 
peared  in  the  doorway. 

"Oh,  August,  what  has  happened?"  she  cried. 

"Gladys  has  fainted,  from  some  cause  or  other. 
Go,  Geoff,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Everet,  "and 
send  some  one  immediately  for  Doctor  Hoyt." 

The  young  man  hastened  to  obey,  glad  to  get  away 
from  the  sight  of  that  white,  rigid  face  for  a  mo 
ment. 

He  found  a  servant  in  the  hall,  dispatched  him 
for  the  family  physician,  and  then  went  back  to  his 
post  beside  Gladys. 

He  was  nearly  as  pale  as  the  unconscious  bride, 
for  he  knew  that  the  truth  must  soon  some  out,  and, 
hardened  and  dogged  as  he  was,  the  prospect  of  the 
inevitable  explosion  was  not  a  pleasant  one. 

Mrs.  Huntress  was  on  her  knees  beside  her  daugh 
ter,  bathing  her  face  with  water,  which  she  had 
poured  from  an  ice-pitcher  standing  near. 

She  had  thrown  back  the  delicate  vail,  and  it  lay 
all  in  a  heap,  like  a  fleecy  cloud,  about  the  pretty 
brown  head  upon  the  sofa-pillow,  while  Mr.  Hun 
tress  had  torn  off  his  gloves,  and  was  chafing  the 
small  limp  hands  with  anxious  solicitude. 

"What  could  have  been  the  cause  of  this?  When 
was  she  taken  ill?"  he  asked,  half  turning  toward 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  169 

Everet,  but  still  keeping  his  eyes  fastened  upon  the 
face  he  loved  so  well. 

"Just  before  you  entered,"  Everet  answered,  in 
a  clear,  natural  tone. 

Mr.  Huntress  started,  and  turned  a  questioning 
glance  upon  him. 

There  eyes  met,  and  held  each  other  for  one  brief 
moment. 

Then  Mr.  Huntress  dropped  the  hands  he  was 
chafing,  arose  slowly  to  his  feet,  his  own  color  fast 
receding. 

"Geoffrey?"  he  said,  in  a  doubtful  tone,  going 
close  up  to  the  young  man. 

"No,  sir;  Everet  Mapleson,  if  you  please,"  re 
plied  the  young  man,  haughtily,  as  with  a  mighty 
effort  he  braced  himself  for  the  encounter. 

"By  heaven,  //  is!"  August  Huntress  hoarsely  ex 
claimed,  and  recoiling  as  if  he  had  been  struck  a 
heavy  blow.  "What — what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?" 

"It  means  that  your  daughter  has  become  my  wife 
instead  of  marrying  Geoffrey  Dale,  as  everybody 
supposed  she  was  going  to  do." 

Mrs.  Huntress  sprang  up  with  a  faint  shriek  at 
this. 

"No,  no !"  she  cried,  "that  cannot  be." 

Then,  as  she  peered  closely  into  his  face,  and 
realized  the  truth  of  the  fearful  disclosure,  she  tot 
tered  feebly  toward  her  husband,  moaning: 


170  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"Oh,  August!  he  has  practiced  a  terrible  decep 
tion  upon  us,  and  it  will  surely  kill  Gladys." 

She  was  almost  as  helpless  as  the  unconscious  girl 
herself,  and  her  husband  was  forced  to  put  her  into 
a  rocker  that  stood  near  him,  simply  because  he,  too, 
was  so  weakened  and  unmanned  by  what  he  had 
heard  that  he  was  unable  to  support  her. 

But  a  terrible  wrath  began  to  rise  within  him; 
with  it  came  a  false  kind  of  strength,  and  turning 
toward  the  wolf  who  had  thus  stolen  into  his  house 
hold,  he  commanded,  in  a  fearful  voice: 

"Young  man,  explain  yourself!" 

"Willingly,  sir;  the  sooner  the  truth  is  out,  the 
better  it  will  suit  me,"  Everet  replied,  haughtily.  "I 
have  loved  your  daughter  for  more  than  three  years. 
Twice  I  have  offered  myself  to  her,  and  twice  been 
rejected.  When  I  learned  of  her  engagement  to 
the  low-born  boy  whom  you  adopted,  and  whom  I 
have  despised  and  hated  from  the  very  first  of  our 
acquaintance,  I  vowed  it  should  never  be  consum 
mated.  I  worshiped  her,  and  I  resolved  that  I  would 
win  her  at  any  cost.  I  have  done  so;  she  is  mine, 
wedded  to  me  this  night,  in  the  presence  of  yourself 
and  hundreds  of  others,  and  I  shall  assert  my  claim 
in  spite  of  you  all.  I  hoped,  in  the  excitement  and 
confusion,  and  from  my  close  resemblance  to  Hunt 
ress,  that  I  should  escape  discovery  until  our  de 
parture  from  New  York.  If  we  had  not  reached  the 
house  quite  so  early — if  the  guests  could  have  fol- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  171 

lowed  close  upon  us  and  kept  Gladys'  attention  from 
being  especially  called  to  me,  I  think  I  could  have 
warded  off  detection  until  we  were  well  on  our  way 
to  Boston.  She  seemed  turned  to  stone  when  she  did 
recognize  me,  and  realized  how  she  had  been  duped, 
and  when  I  attempted  to  reason  with  her  she 
swooned." 

For  a  minute  after  Everet  concluded,  Mr.  Hunt 
ress  stood  like  one  dazed  by  some  fearful  shock,  his 
glance  wavering  between  the  still  unconscious  bride 
and  the  man  whose  victim  she  had  become. 

"It  is  a  fraud !"  he  cried  at  last.  "You  have  prac 
ticed  a  most  damnable  fraud  upon  us  all;  but  I  hope 
that  you  do  not  imagine  for  a  moment  that  you  can 
enforce  your  claim.  The  courts  of  New  York  will 
promptly  annul  the  marriage." 

"Allow  me  to  suggest,  sir,  that  you  will  first  have 
to  prove  your  point  regarding  fraud,"  Everet  re 
torted,  with  quiet  defiance.  "Miss  Huntress  has 
been  heard  to  affirm  that  she  could  distinguish  be 
tween  Geoffrey  Dale  and  myself  without  any  diffi 
culty,  and  yet  she  went  to  the  altar  with  me  and 
pledged  herself  to  me  without  a  demur." 

Mr.  Huntress  groaned. 

"Was  that  strange  clergyman  a  tool  of  yours?" 
he  demanded,  excitedly.  "Was  that  all  a  clever  de 
vice  of  yours  also  ?" 

"No.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  he  was  substituted 
just  as  I  related  to  you,  although  it  proved  a  most 


172  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

fortunate  circumstance  for  me;  but  the  telegram 
which  called  your  pastor  from  his  home  was  not  a 
bona-fide  one.  I  never  should  have  dared  to  face 
him,  who  has  so  long  known  Geoffrey,  for  he  would 
have  detected  the  trick  at  once." 

"Scoundrel !"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  between  his 
teeth.  "Where  is  my  son? — where  is  Geoffrey?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  sir.  I  think,  however,  he  has 
also  been  invited  out  of  town — for  a  few  hours,  at 
least,"  Everet  returned,  a  little  smile  of  triumph  curv 
ing  his  lips  as  he  became  more  accustomed  to  the 
situation  and  realized  his  power. 

Mr.  Huntress  caught  it,  and  a  dusky  flush  mounted 
to  his  forehead. 

"Leave  this  house  instantly!"  he  commanded,  un 
able  to  control  himself  any  longer  in  the  face  of 
such  effrontery. 

"I  could  not  think  of  it,  sir,"  Everet  quietly  re 
plied,  and  composedly  seating  himself  by  a  window. 
"My  place  is  beside  my  wife,  and  here  I  shall  stay 
until  she  shall  be  able  to  accompany  me  elsewhere." 

What  Mr.  Huntress  would  have  done  next  it  is 
impossible  to  say,  but  before  he  could  even  reply,  the 
door  opened  and  Doctor  Hoyt  entered. 

"What  am  I  wanted  for?  Bless  me!  what  does 
this  mean?"  he  exclaimed,  glancing  about  him  with 
undisguised  astonishment,  and  perceiving  the  con 
dition  of  the  newly  made  bride. 

"Gladys  was  taken  ill  immediately  upon  returning 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  173 

from  the  church,"  Mr.  Huntress  hastened  to  ex 
plain,  suddenly  bethinking  himself  that  it  would  be 
wise  to  avoid  a  scandal,  at  least  until  he  could  take 
legal  advice  and  see  what  hope  there  was  of  a  re 
lease  for  Gladys  from  the  hateful  bonds  that  bound 
her. 

"Ah,  yes — a  protracted  swoon,  caused  by  excite 
ment  or  some  sudden  shock,"  said  the  energetic 
little  doctor,  with  a  professional  air,  as  he  took  one 
of  the  limp,  white  hands  that  lay  on  Gladys'  still 
breast,  and  felt  for  the  pulse. 

He  could  not  find  any,  nor  was  there  any  move 
ment  about  the  heart,  and  he  began  to  look  very 
grave. 

"She  must  be  put  to  bed  immediately,  and  there 
must  be  perfect  quiet  throughout  the  house,"  he  said. 
"Huntress,  you  must  explain  this  to  your  guests,  and 
get  them  away  as  soon  as  possible.  It  is  unfortu 
nate,  but  I  won't  answer  for  the  consequences  if  there 
is  any  confusion  when  she  comes  to  herself.  Here, 
madame,"  to  Mrs.  Huntress,  "get  this  finery  off  her 
head  and  loosen  her  corsage,  and  you,  sir,"  to  Ev- 
eret,  whom  he  supposed  to  be  Geoffrey,  "unlace 
those  pretty  number  twos,  and  give  the  blood  a 
chance  to  circulate  in  her  feet." 

His  coming  seemed  to  put  life  and  confidence  into 
the  nearly  distracted  parents. 

Mr.  Huntress  braced  himself  to  encounter  the 
crowd  of  wondering  people  in  the  drawing-room, 


174  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

and,  going  out,  explained  as  briefly  as  possible  the 
sudden  illness  of  the  bride,  and  the  sympathetic 
guests,  with  a  few  well-bred  expressions  of  regret, 
immediately  dispersed,  and  in  less  than  fifteen  min 
utes  the  mansion  was  cleared  and  the  stricken  house 
hold  left  to  itself,  while  not  a  suspicion  of  the  fearful 
truth  had  got  abroad. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WHAT  BECAME  OF  GEOFFREY 

GLADYS  lay  so  long  in  her  swoon  that  not  only  her 
friends  but  the  physician  also  became  greatly 
alarmed  lest  she  should  never  rally;  the  shock  which 
had  caused  this  suspension  of  animation  might  end 
in  death. 

Everet  Mapleson,  too,  as  he  sat  alone  in  that 
small  room  back  of  the  drawing-room,  was  in  a  very 
unenviable  frame  of  mind.  He  knew  that  if  Gladys 
should  die  her  death  would  lie  at  his  door;  he  would 
really  have  been  her  murderer,  and  such  a  disastrous 
result  of  his  reckless  plot  he  had  never  contemplated. 

He  had  fondly  hoped,  as  he  told  Mr.  Huntress, 
that,  in  the  excitement  and  gaiety  of  the  evening,  sur 
rounded  by  friends  and  receiving  their  congratula 
tions,  he  could  easily  play  Geoffrey's  part,  and  she 
would  not  detect  the  imposition  until  they  should 
start  off  alone  upon  their  wedding  journey.  He  had 
practiced  many  little  mannerisms  that  were  peculiar 
to  Geoffrey,  changing  his  voice,  as  far  as  he  could, 
to  imitate  his,  and  had  not  reckoned  upon  the  keen 
ness  of  love  to  discover  the  fraud  so  readily. 

175 


176  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

He  had  expected  that  Gladys  would  be  very  un 
reconciled  and  unreasonable  at  first,  but  he  had 
hoped,  when  she  realized  that  there  was  no  help  for 
the  deed,  she  might  resign  herself  to  the  inevitable, 
and  that  he  would  gradually  win  her  love  by  the  in 
fluence  of  his  own  for  her  and  his  devotion  to  her. 
He  had  been  wholly  unprepared,  however,  for  the 
exceeding  horror  and  loathing  which  she  had  evinced 
upon  discovering  him,  and  she  had  thoroughly  fright 
ened  him  by  her  rigid  despair  and  the  terrible  leth 
argy  which  had  followed  it. 

When  they  bore  her  away  to  her  room  he  fain 
would  have  followed,  his  anxiety  was  so  great  upon 
her  account;  but  as  he  essayed  to  do  so,  Mr.  Hun 
tress  turned  upon  him  in  sudden  fury. 

"Stay  where  you  are!"  he  commanded,  uor,  what 
would  be  better  still,  leave  the  house  altogether." 

"I  shall  not  leave  the  house,  sir,"  the  young  man 
answered,  doggedly,  and  he  resumed  his  seat,  re 
solved  to  brave  it  out  to  the  end,  though  a  sickening 
fear  was  creeping  over  him  that  the  end  might  be 
such  as  would  make  him  wish  he  had  never  been  born. 

So  the  poor  little  bride  was  borne  from  his  sight, 
her  bridal  robes  were  removed,  and  everything  done 
for  her  recovery  that  love  could  do  or  professional 
skill  could  suggest. 

Strange  though  it  may  seem,  no  one,  save  the 
physician,  suspected  the  cause  of  this  sudden  attack. 

Mr.  Huntress  had  confided  the  circumstances  at- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  177 

tending  it  to  Doctor  Hoyt,  because  he  felt  that  he 
ought  to  be  informed  in  order  that  he  might  work  un- 
derstandingly,  but  not  even  a  servant  dreamed  that 
their  beautiful  young  mistress  had  been  married  to 
the  wrong  man. 

"August,  I  am  nearly  wild  about  Geoffrey,  as  well 
as  Gladys,"  Mrs.  Huntress  said,  to  her  husband,  as 
together  they  bent  over  the  unconscious  girl,  anx 
iously  watching  for  some  sign  of  returning  life.  "Do 
you  believe  that  wretch  would  dare  to  harm  him?" 

"No,  indeed,  dear.  I  feel  sure  that  our  Geoff  is 
safe  enough.  I  judge,  from  the  fellow's  words,  that 
he  has  been  decoyed  to  some  place,  where  he  was  to 
be  detained  until  the  wedding  was  well  over,  and 
Mapleson  well  on  the  way  to  Boston  with  Gladys. 
Heavens!  what  an  escape  for  the  dear  child!"  he 
concluded,  growing  white  over  the  contemplation  of 
the  young  girl's  sad  fate  if  Everet  had  succeeded  in 
keeping  up  the  deception  until  after  the  steamer  had 
sailed. 

"But  is  it  an  escape?"  Mrs.  Huntress  whispered, 
with  quivering  lips.  "Can  the  marriage  be  an 
nulled?" 

"Certainly,  Alice,"  her  husband  emphatically  re 
plied,  "because  we  can  prove  the  man  a  scoundrel 
and  an  impostor." 

"It  will  make  a  terrible  scandal,"  sighed  his  wife. 

"Better  that  than  that  our  dear  one  should  be 
doomed  to  a  life  of  misery.  I  will  spend  my  last  dol- 


178  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

lar  to  give  her  back  her  freedom  and  punish  that 
audacious  wretch,"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  with  firmly 
compressed  lips.  "Poor  Geoff!"  he  added,  after  a 
pause,  "I  wonder  where  he  can  be;  he  must  be  in  a 
terrible  state  of  mind,  wherever  he  is,"  concluded 
Mr.  Huntress,  with  a  weary  sigh. 

But  they  could  not  think  of  much  save  Gladys, 
while  she  lay  in  such  a  critical  condition,  and  they 
hung  over  her  with  white  faces  and  sinking  hearts, 
while  they  anxiously  watched  the  physician's  every 
look  and  movement. 

After  what,  to  them,  seemed  an  eternity  of  time, 
a  faint  sign  of  life  began  to  show  itself;  the  heart 
slowly  resumed  its  motion,  the  pulse  gave  forth  a 
feeble  throb,  a  faint  tinge  of  color  flickered  in  the 
drawn  lips,  and  the  chest  began  to  heave  with  the 
renewed  action  of  the  lungs. 

"She  will  weather  it,"  Doctor  Hoyt  said,  under 
his  breath,  but  in  his  brisk,  decisive  way,  which  in 
stantly  carried  conviction  and  comfort  to  those  par 
ents'  fond  hearts. 

But  when  she  did  come  fully  to  herself,  and  looked 
up  into  those  earnest  faces  above  her,  when  reason 
and  memory  reasserted  themselves,  that  same  look 
of  horror  came  into  her  eyes,  that  rigid  settling  of 
her  features  returned,  and  were  followed  by  another 
swoon,  although  not  so  frightful  or  prolonged  as  the 
first  one  had  been. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  before  the  physician  succeeded 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  179 

in  arresting  the  tendency  to  fainting,  and  she  came 
fully  to  herself. 

"Geoffrey!"  she  moaned,  as  soon  as  she  could 
speak,  and  looking  around  for  the  dear  face,  while 
a  shudder  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

Doctor  Hoyt  shot  a  warning  look  at  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Huntress;  then  said,  in  a  reassuring  tone: 

"He  is  all  right,  and  shall  come  to  you  when  you 
are  rather  more  like  yourself.  Now,  drink  this  for 
the  sake  of  getting  a  little  strength." 

He  put  a  glass  to  her  lips,  and  she  drank  mechan 
ically. 

Then,  pushing  his  hand  away,  she  struggled  to  a 
half-sitting  posture,  and  looked  fearfully  about  the 
room. 

As  her  glance  fell  upon  her  wedding  finery,  which 
had  been  hastily  thrown  upon  some  chairs,  she  was 
seized  with  another  violent  shivering,  and  fell  back 
among  her  pillows,  covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands, 
as  if  to  shut  out  from  sight  and  memory  the  fearful 
ordeal  through  which  she  had  passed  a  few  hours 
previous. 

But  the  potion  which  the  physician  had  adminis 
tered  was  a  powerful  narcotic,  which  began  almost 
immediately  to  take  effect,  and  sleep  soon  locked  her 
senses  in  oblivion. 

Hardly  had  she  begun  to  breathe  regularly,  and 
the  weary  watchers  about  her  bed  to  hope  that  the 


180  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

worst  was  over,  when  the  great  clock  in  the  hall 
below  struck  the  hour  of  midnight. 

At  the  last  stroke  the  door  of  the  sick-room  swung 
softly  open,  and  Geoffrey's  face,  pale,  haggard,  and 
anxious,  appeared  in  the  aperture. 

It  required  a  mighty  effort  on  the  part  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Huntress  to  refrain  from  uttering  an  exclama 
tion  of  joy  at  sight  of  him. 

But  the  doctor  held  up  a  warning  finger.  Mrs. 
Huntress,  who  had  half  started  from  her  chair,  sank 
back  to  her  post  beside  Gladys'  pillow,  while  her 
husband,  with  a  look  of  intense  relief,  stole  quietly 
from  the  room. 

We  must  now  go  back  to  the  hour  when  the  wed 
ding  party  started  from  the  house  for  the  church. 

Geoffrey,  as  has  been  stated,  left  a  little  in  ad 
vance  of  the  others,  as  he  desired  a  few  moments' 
interview  with  the  clergyman  before  the  ceremony. 

Not  a  thought  of  foul  play  entered  his  mind  as 
he  drove  away,  neither  had  he  a  suspicion  that  a 
different  carriage  had  been  substituted  for  the  one 
he  had  ordered,  that  having  been  suddenly  and  cun 
ningly  sent  off  to  the  station  for  an  imaginary  arrival 
on  the  evening  express. 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  that  he 
did  not  even  observe  the  route  the  driver  was  taking, 
until  he  suddenly  noticed  that  the  speed  of  the  horses 
had  greatly  increased  and  he  was  rolling  along  at  a 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  181 

remarkable  rate  through  quiet  and  almost  deserted 
streets. 

It  was  quite  dark,  but  the  street-lamps  gave  light 
enough  to  show  him  that  he  was  a  long  distance 
from  the  place  where  he  wanted  to  go. 

He  tried  to  lower  the  window  beside  him. 

It  was  immovable. 

He  tried  the  other,  but  it  was  as  fast  as  the  first 
one. 

He  thumped  on  the  front  of  the  carriage,  to  at 
tract  the  attention  of  the  driver;  but  a  crack  of  the 
whip  was  the  only  answer. 

He  shouted,  commanding  the  man  to  stop,  but  the 
horses  only  went  on  the  faster. 

Driven  to  desperation,  Geoffrey  drew  back,  and, 
with  one  powerful  blow  from  his  foot,  shivered  one 
of  the  windows  to  atoms. 

At  the  sound  of  the  breaking  glass,  the  coachman 
slackened  the  speed  of  his  steeds. 

'"Driver,  where  are  you  taking  me?"  Geoffrey 
shouted,  thrusting  his  head  from  the  window.  "I 
want  to  go  to  Plymouth  Church." 

"Oh !  Plymouth?"  replied  the  man,  in  a  tone  of 
innocent  astonishment,  as  if  he  had  been  bound  for 
some  other  church,  and  was  surprised  to  learn  that 
he  had  made  a  mistake. 

Geoffrey  was  unsuspicious  enough  to  believe  this, 
yet  he  was  very  much  annoyed. 

He  desired  to  see  the  clergyman  before  the  cere- 


182  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

mony,  and  he  knew  it  was  already  past  the  hour  set 
for  his  marriage. 

"You  have  no  time  to  lose,"  he  shouted  again  to 
the  driver.  "I  fear  you  have  made  me  late,  as  it  is; 
get  me  there  as  quickly  as  you  can." 

"All  right,  sir,"  came  back  the  answer,  while  the 
carriage  suddenly  turned  a  corner,  and  the  man 
whipped  the  horses  to  a  run. 

Geoffrey  had  no  overcoat  with  him;  he  thought  he 
should  not  need  it,  the  day  had  been  so  mild,  and  he 
would  be  shut  into  a  close  carriage;  but  now  the  chill 
night  air  came  in  through  the  broken  window,  and 
he  began  to  suffer  with  the  cold. 

On  and  on  the  carriage  went,  faster  and  faster  the 
horses  flew,  until  suddenly  Geoffrey  discovered,  to  his 
dismay,  that  he  was  rolling  over  an  open  country 
road,  while  the  lights  of  the  city  were  gleaming  far 
behind. 

Again  he  leaned  forth  and  shouted  to  the  driver 
to  stop ;  that  he  was  wrong. 

But  this  time  there  came  no  answer,  save  the  whiz 
and  crack  of  the  lash,  and  the  sound  of  the  horses' 
hoofs  upon  the  road. 

He  began  to  fear  that  the  man  was  intoxicated. 

He  called,  he  commanded,  he  threatened;  all  to 
no  purpose,  except  to  make  the  driver  urge  his  horses 
to  go  faster  and  faster. 

They  were  far  out  in  the  suburbs  now,  with  the 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  183 

houses  few  and  far  between,  and  Geoffrey  was  nearly 
in  despair. 

What  would  the  wedding  party  think,  upon  reach 
ing  the  church,  to  find  no  bridegroom  there?  What 
would  Gladys  think?  What  would  those  hundreds 
of  guests  say  when  they  should  discover  there  could 
be  no  wedding?  What  would  be  the  end  of  this 
dreadful  adventure? 

Could  it  be  possible  that  the  man  who  was  driving 
was  some  insane  creature,  carrying  him  to  destruc 
tion? 

Every  possible  explanation,  save  the  right  one, 
flashed  through  his  mind  as  he  sat  there,  utterly 
powerless  to  help  himself,  yet  almost  crazed  with 
anxiety  and  suspense. 

He  shouted  himself  hoarse,  without  eliciting  the 
slightest  response  or  attention. 

He  leaned  as  far  out  of  the  carriage  as  he  was 
able,  to  look  at  the  man  on  the  box,  but  could  only 
dimly  distinguish  a  figure  muffled  to  the  ears  in  a 
huge  ulster,  but  as  motionless  as  a  statue,  except  for 
that  periodical  swing  of  his  right  arm  in  wielding 
the  whip. 

Geoffrey  dared  not  leap  out,  even  though  in  his 
desperation  he  was  strongly  tempted  to  do  so;  he 
realized  that  such  a  hazardous  proceeding  might 
result  in  instant  death,  while  there  was  no  way  by 
which  he  could  climb  to  the  top  of  the  carriage  to 
reach  the  driver;  there  was  nothing  that  he  could 


184  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

do  but  submit  to  the  inevitable,  and  await  further 
developments. 

So,  wearied  out  and  thoroughly  chilled  by  the  keen 
night  air,  he  first  stuffed  one  of  the  cushions  into 
the  broken  window,  then  sank  back  inco  a  corner,  and 
surrendered  himself  to  his  fate. 

For  three  long  hours  he  sat  there  and  was  driven 
at  a  rapid  pace,  knowing  not  whither  he  was  going. 

At  last,  to  his  infinite  relief,  the  carriage  stopped. 

Taking  instant  advantage  of  this  circumstance, 
Geoffrey  leaped  to  the  ground,  and  turning  furiously 
to  the  driver,  he  demanded  what  he  meant  by  bring 
ing  him  there. 

The  man  might  have  been  a  deaf  mute  for  all  the 
notice  he  took  of  either  the  young  man's  question 
or  passion. 

He  neither  spoke  nor  moved,  except  to  quickly 
turn  his  horses  about  and  drive  rapidly  back  in  the 
direction  from  which  he  had  come,  leaving  his  vic 
tim  standing  in  the  middle  of  a  lonely  road  with  not 
a  house  in  sight. 

For  a  moment  Geoffrey  was  so  bewildered  that 
he  did  not  know  what  to  do;  he  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  where  he  was,  only  he  was  sure  that  he  must  be 
miles  and  miles  from  Brooklyn. 

But  his  insufficient  clothing  but  illy  protected  him 
from  the  cold,  and  he  soon  began  to  realize  that  he 
could  not  stand  there  long  without  great  danger  to 
himself. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  185 

He  began  to  walk  rapidly,  and  soon  found  him 
self  ascending  a  hill,  and  upon  reaching  the  top  he 
saw,  beneath  him,  the  lights  of  a  small  village  gleam 
ing  through  the  darkness. 

Quickening  his  steps  he  reached  it  after  ten  or  fif 
teen  minutes,  and,  to,  his  joy,  discovered  that  a  line 
of  railway  passed  through  it. 

Following  this  he  soon  came  to  the  station,  where 
he  found  a  sleepy-looking  agent  and  telegraph  oper 
ator,  who  regarded  him  and  his  immaculate  dress- 
suit  with  undisguised  astonishment. 

He  inquired  when  the  next  train  went  to  Brooklyn, 
and  to  his  dismay  learned  that  this  was  only  a  branch 
road,  and  that  no  train  was  due  there  for  an  hour. 
It  was  small  comfort,  too,  to  be  told  that  it  would 
be  only  a  freight  train  with  a  passenger  car  attached 
— that  it  would  stop  at  every  station  where  there  was 
freight  to  be  delivered  or  taken  up;  that  it  would 
be  a  full  hour  reaching  the  main  line,  where  he  would 
have  to  wait  another  hour  for  a  train  to  Brooklyn. 

All  this  delay  he  knew  would  prevent  him  from 
reaching  home  before  midnight,  and  then  there 
flashed  upon  him,  for  the  first  time,  a  suspicion  that 
he  had  been  brought  to  that  remote  place  by  no  in 
toxicated  driver's  freak,  neither  had  he  been  the 
victim  of  a  maniac's  frenzy,  but  that  his  abduction 
had  been  deliberately  and  cunningly  planned  to  pre 
vent  his  appearance  at  his  own  wedding — to  hinder, 
if  possible,  his  marriage  with  Gladys. 


186  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

But  who  could  have  perpetrated  such  a  dastardly 
act,  and  what  could  have  been  the  ultimate  object? 
It  did  occur  to  him  that  Everet  Mapleson  might 
have  had  something  to  do  with  it,  but  he  quickly 
abandoned  that  idea  for,  much  as  he  distrusted  and 
disliked  him,  on  many  accounts,  he  could  not  think 
anything  so  bad  as  this  of  him — little  dreaming  how 
much  worse  he  had  done — while,  too,  he  believed 
he  had  left  the  city  more  than  a  week  previous. 

He  was  very  cold,  and  he  knew  he  could  not  be 
three  hours  more  on  the  road  without  a  coat  or  wrap 
of  some  kind  to  protect  him;  but  how  to  procure  it 
was  a  question  he  could  not  solve,  for  the  station- 
master  told  him  there  was  not  a  clothing  store  in 
the  place. 

While  he  was  hovering  over  the  fire  in  the  ladies' 
waiting-room,  shivering  with  the  cold,  and  feeling 
inconceivably  wretched,  a  tall,  portly  woman  entered, 
bearing  a  large  gripsack  in  one  hand,  a  heavy  shawl 
and  waterproof  in  the  other. 

She  wore  a  long  circular  of  some  rough  cloth, 
which  completely  covered  her  from  her  neck  to  her 
heels,  a  knitted  hood  upon  her  head,  a  pair  of  brown 
woolen  mittens  on  her  hands,  and  looked  so  warm 
and  comfortable  that  Geoffrey  shivered  afresh. 

His  eyes  fastened  themselves  instantly  and  en 
viously  upon  the  shawl  she  carried. 

A  bright  idea  struck  him,   and,   addressing  her 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  187 

courteously,  he  asked  her  if  she  would  sell  it  to  him, 
explaining  briefly  that  he  had  been  on  his  way  to  a 
wedding  in  a  close  carriage,  when  accident  threw  him 
unprotected  out  into  the  cold. 

"I  will  give  you  twenty  dollars  for  that  shawl, 
madame,"  he  said,  knowing  well,  however,  that  it 
was  not  really  worth  half  that  sum. 

But  she  refused  his  offer — the  shawl  had  belonged 
to  a  sister  who  had  but  just  died,  and  she  could  not 
part  with  it;  however,  she  would  sell  him  the  circu 
lar  she  had  on,  she  said,  for  half  what  he  had  offered 
for  the  other  wrap,  and  wear  that  herself. 

This  proposal  pleased  him  even  better  than  his 
own,  for  he  would  be  far  less  conspicuous  in  the  dark 
circular,  and  he  never  had  felt  better  over  a  bargain, 
or  experienced  a  greater  sense  of  personal  comfort, 
than  when  he  gave  up  his  ten  dollars  and  wrapped 
himself  in  the  shabby  garment,  just  as  the  lazy  train 
came  puffing  up  to  the  station. 

He  found  a  seat  near  the  stove,  and  strove  to 
possess  his  soul  in  patience  until  he  should  reach  the 
main  line.  The  waiting  at  the  junction,  however,  was 
even  a  greater  tax  upon  his  nerves,  but  it  was  over  at 
last,  and,  boarding  the  Brooklyn  train  the  moment  it 
stopped,  he  was  soon  rolling  rapidly  toward  home. 

He  reached  Brooklyn  only  a  little  before  mid 
night,  called  a  carriage  and  arrived  before  his  own 
door  five  minutes  before  the  hour  struck.  He  let 


188  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

himself  quietly  in  with  his  latch-key,  and,  fearing  he 
hardly  knew  what,  stole  up  to  Gladys'  room,  where 
he  had  observed  a  light,  and  seen  shadows  on  the 
curtains  before  entering  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XV 

AN  ACCIDENT  REVEALS  AN  HEIRLOOM 

"My  dear  boy!"  cried  Mr.  Huntress,  under  his 
breath,  as  he  stepped  out  into  the  hall  beside  Geof 
frey,  cautiously  closing  the  door  after  him,  and  then 
seizing  him  warmly  by  both  hands,  "where  on  earth 
have  you  been,  and  what  has  happened  to  you?" 

"The  most  mysterious  and  villainous  thing  that 
could  happen,"  replied  Geoffrey,  with  a  gloomy  face. 
"I  have  been  kidnapped — carried  miles  and  miles 
away — and  it  has  taken  me  hours  to  return." 

"I  suspected  as  much,"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  sternly. 

"Then  you  haven't  attributed  my  absence  to  any 
fault  of  mine,  Uncle  August?" 

"No,  indeed,  my  boy.    I  knew  better." 

"What  made  you  suspect  foul  play?  But  first  tell 
me  about  Gladys.  How  has  she  borne  it?"  Geof 
frey  asked,  with  a  wistful  glance  at  the  door  beyond 
which  his  darling  lay. 

Mr.  Huntress  shot  an  anxious  look  at  him. 

Clearly  he  had  no  suspicion  of  what  had  occurred 
during  his  absence. 

"Gladys  has  suffered  a  great  deal  mentally,  but 
189 


190  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

she  is  sleeping  now,"  he  said,  gravely,  and  wondering 
how  he  could  ever  tell  him  the  terrible  truth. 

"It  must  have  been  dreadful.  I  can  imagine  the 
consternation  of  everybody  when  they  discovered 
there  would  be  no  wedding,"  said  Geoffrey,  excitedly, 
while  he  began  to  pace  restlessly  up  and  down  the 
corridor.  "How  awkward! — how  wretched  for  my 
darling! — how  uncomfortable  for  you  and  Aunt 
Alice !  How  did  you  manage  ?  What  could  you  do 
or  say?" 

"Come  with  me,  Geoff,  where  we  can  talk  without 
fear  of  disturbing  Gladys,  and  I  will  tell  you.  I 
have  something  very  strange  to  tell  you,  too,"  said 
Mr.  Huntress,  linking  his  arm  within  that  of  the 
young  man  and  leading  him  to  an  alcove  over  the 
front  entrance. 

"Something  strange,"  Geoffrey  repeated,  in  a 
startled  tone. 

"Very.  There  has  been  a  most  villainous  plot 
connected  with  this  affair." 

From  Mr.  Huntress'  manner,  Geoffrey  saw  that 
something  of  a  very  grave  nature  had  occurred. 

"What  is  it?"  he  demanded.  "Tell  me  at  once; 
I  can  bear  anything  better  than  suspense." 

"Geoff,  there  was  a  wedding!" 

"Uncle  August!" 

"But  no  one  save  ourselves  and  our  good  doctor, 
as  yet  suspects  that  there  was  anything  wrong  about 
it." 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  191 

"Are  you  crazy?  What  do  you  mean?"  cried  the 
young  man,  breathlessly.  "A  wedding?  That  could 
not  be.  Gladys  could  not  have  been  the  bride." 

"Gladys  was  the  bride,  and  every  guest  believes 
that  you  were  the  groom." 

Geoffrey  sank  upon  a  chair,  his  strength  all  gone, 
while  a  dim  suspicion  of  the  horrible  truth  began  to 
take  form  in  his  mind. 

"What  can  you  mean?"  he  gasped,  hardly  above 
a  whisper,  a  deadly  pallor  on  his  face,  an  agonized 
look  in  his  eyes. 

"Be  calm,  my  boy,"  said  his  uncle,  laying  his  hand 
affectionately  upon  his  shoulder.  "A  dreadful  thing 
has  occurred,  but  it  was  all  a  farce — a  fraud,  rather 
— which  the  law  will  set  right  in  time,  and  Gladys 
may  yet  be  yours " 

"Heavens !  Uncle  August,  you  are  driving  me 
mad!  Explain!  explain!  I  cannot  bear  these  enig 
mas  !"  cried  the  poor  fellow,  springing  to  his  feet  in 
a  fearful  state  of  agitation,  while  a  cold  perspiration 
started  out  all  over  his  face. 

Mr.  Huntress  gently  forced  him  back  into  his 
chair  and  began  at  once  to  tell  him  all  that  had  oc 
curred,  from  the  moment  of  the  departure  of  the 
bridal  party  from  the  church,  up  to  the  present  hour. 

Geoffrey  sat  throughout  the  fearful  recital  as  if 
he  had  suddenly  been  turned  to  stone,  and  when  at 
last  it  was  concluded,  there  were  several  moments  of 
dreadful  silence.  He  seemed  paralyzed,  mentally 


192  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

and  physically,  by  the  blighting  affliction  which  had 
overtaken  him,  and  by  the  bold  daring  of  the  enemy 
who  had  thus  ruined  his  dearest  hopes. 

Agony,  however,  at  last  broke  the  spell. 

He  arose,  and  stood  pale  and  stern  before  his 
uncle. 

"Where  is  he?"  he  demanded,  in  an  awful  voice, 
although  it  was  barely  audible,  "where  is  that  treach 
erous  villain  who  has  robbed  me  of  my  wife  and 
broken  her  heart?  Tell  me,  for  there  must  be  a 
terrible  settlement  between  him  and  me.  Where  is 
Everet  Mapleson,  Uncle  August?" 

"Here!"  responded  a  defiant  voice  close  beside 
them,  and,  wheeling  suddenly  about  at  the  sound, 
Geoffrey  saw  his  rival  standing  between  the  parted 
draperies  that  separated  the  alcove  from  the  main 
hall. 

"I  am  here  to  answer  for  myself,"  he  continued, 
in  the  same  tone,  while  he  looked  as  pale  and  reso 
lute  as  Geoffrey  himself,  "but  first  I  demand  tidings 
of  my — wife." 

That  word  was  like  a  blow  to  Geoffrey,  who  stag 
gered  back  with  a  groan  of  anguish. 

But  he  quickly  rallied. 

"She  is  not  your  wife!"  he  said,  fiercely;  "a  farce 
— an  act  of  fraud,  could  never  make  her  such." 

"You  are  a  trifle  premature  in  your  statement," 
retorted  young  Mapleson,  with  a  sneer.  "I  do  not 
deny  that  my  purpose  was  accomplished  by  some- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  193 

thing  of  strategy,  but  it  was  accomplished,  notwith 
standing — Gladys  Huntress  was  married  to  me  to 
night,  and  it  is  simply  useless  to  contest  the  fact." 

"You  may  have  gone  through  the  marriage  service- 
with  her;  but  you  personated  me,  and  it  was  only  a. 
mock  ceremony.  Besides,  there  were  certain  prelim 
inaries  to  be  attended  to — your  intentions  made 
known — your  certificate  to  be  properly  filled;  with 
out  these  there  could  have  been  no  legal  marriage," 
Geoffrey  returned,  sternly. 

Everet  Mapleson  smiled  superciliously. 

"All  that  you  mention  was  most  carefully  attended 
to,  sir,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  triumph  that  was 
simply  maddening  to  his  listeners.  "The  clergyman 
was  duly  apprised  of  my  intentions,  and  received 
a  handsome  fee,  fifteen  minutes  before  the  arrival 
of  the  bridal  party  at  the  church;  the  ring  had  been 
purchased  and  carefully  marked  and  now  adorns 
the  hand  of  the  bride.  Not  a  single  detail  has  been 
omitted,  I  assure  you,  to  make  my  position  and  my 
claim  secure." 

"Bah!  your  audacity  is  astounding!"  said  Geof 
frey,  contemptuously.  "It  was  a  barefaced  fraud, 
and  the  marriage  will  never  stand  in  law,"  persisted 
Geoffrey,  firmly,  but,  oh !  with  such  a  sinking  agony 
in  his  heart. 

"Prove  it  if  you  can,"  retorted  Mapleson,  arro 
gantly.  "You  will  not  find  it  an  easy  thing  to  do, 


194  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

however,  for  I  shall  make  a  desperate  fight  to  thwart 
you." 

"Wretch!  how  dare  you  attempt  such  a  diabolical 
plot?"  Mr.  Huntress  demanded. 

"I  was  desperate  enough  to  dare  anything,  sir," 
Tlveret  replied,  addressing  him  with  more  respect 
than  he  had  yet  shown.  "With  the  love  I  bear  your 
-daughter  I  could  not  brook  defeat.  I  vowed  that 
I  would  win  her  at  any  cost,  and  but  for  my  own 
Indiscretion  all  this  fuss  might  have  been  avoided. 
I  was  so  elated  by  my  success  in  having  the  marriage 
performed  that  I  could  not  resist  taking  advantage 
of  my  position,  and,  in  attempting  to  salute  my  bride 
after  our  return  to  the  house,  she  recognized  me.  If 
I  had  done  nothing  to  attract  her  especial  attention 
to  me,  the  next  two  hours  might  have  been  tided 
vover  well  enough,  and,  once  on  the  way  to  Boston, 
>en  route  for  Europe,  I  could  have  laughed  at  any  out 
side  interference." 

Geoffrey  shivered.  It  was  dreadful  to  have  to 
'listen  to  these  revelations,  and  to  realize  what  a  nar- 
TOW  escape  Gladys  had  had,  for  he  knew  that  if 
Everet  Mapleson  had  succeeded  in  deceiving  her 
until  the  steamer  sailed,  the  shock  of  her  discovery, 
when  alone,  and  in  the  power  of  the  audacious  scoun 
drel,  might  have  resulted  in  her  death.  Even  now 
they  might  not  be  able  to  secure  her  release,  and  she 
would  still  have  to  remain  his  wife  in  the  sight  of  the 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  195 

world,  but  no  moral  obligation  bound  her  to  him,  and 
no  power  could  ever  compel  her  to  live  with  him. 

"Could  you  ever  hope  to  gain  any  satisfaction  in 
the  presence  of  a  wife  who  would  loathe  the  very 
sight  of  you,  and  whom  you  knew  would  never  cease 
to  love  another?"  Mr.  Huntress  demanded,  with 
curling  lips. 

'  'Love  begets  love,'  you  know,  and  I  imagine  it 
would  not  have  been  such  a  hopeless  task,  after  all, 
to  win  the  heart  of  my  wife,  with  such  devotion  as  I 
have  to  offer  her,"  Everet  Mapleson  flippantly 
replied. 

Geoffrey's  blood  boiled  as  much  at  his  confident,, 
arrogant  tone,  as  at  his  words,  and  almost  before  he 
had  concluded,  he  walked  straight  up  to  him,  seized 
him  by  the  coat-collar,  wheeled  him  about,  and 
marching  him  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  pointed  below 
and  said,  in  a  stern,  authoritative  tone,  as  he  released 
his  hold  of  him: 

"Go!" 

The  young  man  was  so  taken  aback  by  this  sum 
mary  act  that  he  did  not  even  offer  to  resist  until 
he  reached  the  top  stair,  when  he  put  out  his  hand 
and  seized  the  railing. 

He  turned,  with  blazing  eyes,  and  faced  Geoffrey, 
but  the  expression  which  he  saw  upon  his  face  warned 
him  that  he  had  no  irresolute  spirit  to  deal  with. 

"Go !"  reiterated  Geoffrey,  inflexibly,  "or  I  may 


196  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

be  tempted  beyond  my  strength  and  forget  one  of  the 
'thou  shalt  nots.'  ' 

"I  will  not!''  he  returned,  as  resolutely,  all  his 
antagonism  aroused.  "Do  you  imagine  that,  after 
having  struggled  so  desperately  to  attain  the  dear 
est  hopes  of  my  life,  I  will  fly  like  a  coward  in  the 
very  hour  of  their  achievement?" 

But  even  while  he  spoke,  with  all  the  bravado  of 
which  he  was  master,  he  shifted  uneasily  before  the 
-terrible  look  in  Geoffrey  Huntress'  eye. 

Yet  it  aroused  all  the  passion  in  his  nature;  the 
hot  blood  mounted  to  his  brow,  coursing  in  an  angry 
tide  through  all  his  veins,  and  before  either  of  his 
companions  could  suspect  his  intention,  he  swung 
aloft  his  right  arm  to  smite  his  rival  to  the  floor. 

But  the  blow  never  descended.  In  his  hot-headed 
anger  he  forgot  the  danger  of  his  position,  made  a 
misstep,  lost  his  balance  and  fell  headlong  down  the 
long  flight  of  stairs,  and  then  lay  silent  and  motion 
less,  while  those  two  men  above  looked  down  upon 
him  with  white,  startled  faces,  and  hearts  throbbing 
heavily  with  a  sickening  fear. 

The  stairs  were  carpeted  and  thickly  padded,  so 
that  his  fall  had  not  been  a  very  noisy  one;  yet  the 
disturbance  was  sufficient  to  bring  both  Mrs.  Hunt 
ress  and  the  physician  forth  from  Gladys'  room,  in 
.-a  state  of  alarm  and  consternation. 

"What  is  it?  Oh,  August,  what  has  happened?'* 
•cried  Mrs.  Huntress,  clinging  to  her  husband. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  197 

"That  villain  played  the  spy  upon  us,  and  in  at 
tempting  to  strike  Geoffrey,  lost  his  balance  and  fell,"" 
Mr.  Huntress  explained,  adding,  anxiously:  "But 
pray  go  back  and  stay  with  Gladys;  let  her  know 
nothing  of  this,  even  if  she  wakes,  and  we  will  take, 
care  of  this  fellow." 

He  led  her  back  to  the  young  girl's  room,  and  was: 
greatly  relieved  to  see  that  she  was  still  sleeping 
heavily,  and  had  not  been  conscious  of  the  confusion 
outside. 

The  doctor  and  Geoffrey,  meanwhile,  had  sprung 
down  the  stairs,  lifted  the  prostrate  man,  and  carried 
him  into  one  of  the  rooms  below. 

A  careful  examination  convinced  Doctor  Hoyt  that 
there  were  no  bones  broken,  the  thickly  carpeted  and' 
padded  stairs  had  doubtless  been  his  salvation  in 
this  respect;  if  he  had  suffered  no  internal  injury,, 
he  had  surely  escaped  in  a  wonderful  manner. 

The  force  and  shock  of  the  fall  had  stunned  him; 
but  it  was  not  long  before  he  began  to  rally  and  look 
about  him. 

As  he  sat  up,  rubbing  his  confused  head  and  try 
ing  to  realize  what  had  happened  to  him,  Doctor 
Hoyt  glanced  curiously  from  him  to  Geoffrey. 

Both  were  dressed  in  evening  suits,  both  were 
very  pale,  and  their  resemblance  to  each  other  was: 
something  wonderful. 

"I  do  not  wonder  that  the  scamp  succeeded  in  his 
villainous  scheme,"  the  physician  said,  in  an  aside, 


198  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

to  Mr.  Huntress.  "I  never  saw  twins  that  were 
more  of  an  exact  counterpart  of  each  other. 

"Well,  how  do  you  find  yourself  now?"  he  added, 
in  his  abrupt,  professional  way,  turning  to  Everet. 

"I  believe  my  shoulder  is  sprained,"  he  replied, 
cringing  with  pain,  as  he  attempted  to  move  his  left 
arm. 

"Any  peculiar  faintness  at  the  stomach — any  in 
ternal  pain?" 

"No,  I  reckon  not;  I  have  hardly  come  to  myself 
yet,  though." 

The  doctor  made  another  examination. 

"You'll  do,"  he  said,  as  he  completed  it;  "there 
are  no  bones  broken  or  out  of  joint,  and  if  there 
was  anything  very  wrong  inside  it  would  begin  to 
show  itself.  It's  lucky  for  you  that  you  haven't  a 
dislocated  neck.  The  next  time  you  want  to  play 
pugilist  don't  choose  a  flight  of  stairs  for  your  battle- 
•ground.  Now,  if  you'll  take  my  advice,  you'll  make 
tracks  for  your  hotel,  give  yourself  a  good  rubbing 
all  over  with  alcohol,  and  go  to  bed." 

Everet  glanced  darkly  at  the  man,  and  it  was  on 
his  tongue  to  tell  him  that  he  should  do  no  such 
thing;  but  he  had  been  too  thoroughly  shaken  up  by 
his  fall  to  feel  in  a  very  defiant  state,  and  he  realized, 
too,  that  he  had  received  very  good  counsel,  which 
it  might  be  wise  to  heed. 

Mr.  Huntress,  after  hearing  the  doctor's  verdict, 
Lad  slipped  quietly  from  the  room,  feeling  greatly 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

relieved;  but  he  returned  in  a  few  moments  with 
several  small  articles  in  his  hand,  which  he  had 
picked  up  in  the  hall  and  on  the  stairs. 

There  was  a  small  pearl-handled  knife,  a  Russia- 
leather  wallet,  two  or  three  pieces  of  gold,  and  some 
of  silver. 

These  he  handed  to  the  young  man. 

"They  must  have  slipped  from  your  pockets  as 
you  fell,"  he  said. 

Everet  received  them  without  even  a  civil  acknowl 
edgment,  and  replaced  them  in  his  pockets. 

"Does  this  belong  to  you  also?"  Mr.  Huntress 
asked,  holding  out  a  small,  glittering  peculiarly 
shaped  object. 

"Yes;  thanks,"  he  now  had  the  grace  to  say,  in  arc 
eager  tone.  "It  is  a  pocket-piece  and  an  heirloom; 
I  would  not  lose  it  for  a  great  deal,"  and  he  held  out: 
his  hand  for  it. 

Geoffrey  glanced  up  carelessly  at  these  words? 
then  he  stepped  quickly  forward,  his  eyes  glitter 
ing,  a  strange  expression  on  his  face. 

"Let  me  look  at  that,  if  you  please,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Huntress  passed  it  to  him,  although  Everet. 
Mapleson  frowned  at  the  act. 

If  Geoffrey  had  been  pale  before,  he  was  ghastly- 
now  as  he  received  that  small  object  on  the  palm  of" 
his  hand. 

It  was  half  of  a  knight-templar's  cross,  which  had 


-200  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

•been  broken  diagonally,  and  was  beautifully  enam 
eled  and  engraven! 

He  turned  it  over,  holding  it  nearer  the  light  to 
•examine  the  back  of  it. 

"Ha !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  violent  start,  while  he 
glanced  wonderingly  at  Everet,  who  was  also  re 
garding  him  with  astonishment. 

"Will  you  tell  me  how  this  happens  to  be  in  your 
possession?"  Geoffrey  asked,  meeting  his  eye. 

"Certainly,"  the  young  man  returned,  with  mock 
politeness;  "it  belonged  to  my  great-grandfather, 
who  served  in  the  Revolution.  He  became  a  knight- 
templar  just  before  enlisting,  and  was  presented  with 
that  emblem  by  the  lodge  of  master  masons  over 
which  he  had  served  as  W.  M.  The  date  of  the 
presentation,  with  my  venerable  relative's  name,  is 
engraved  on  the  back,  as  you  perceive." 

"What  became  of  the  other  portion  of  it?"  Geof 
frey  asked. 

"My  father  has  it." 

"Your  father  has  it?" 

"Yes,"  curtly  responded  Everet,  annoyed  by  this 
questioning,  yet  impelled  to  reply  by  something  that 
struck  him  as  peculiar  in  Geoffrey's  manner.  "It 
was  broken  by  accident,"  he  added,  "after  my  an 
cestor's  return  from  the  war,  never  having  left  his 
person  during  all  that  time,  and  he  gave  one  half 
to  his  son — 'as  a  pocket-piece,'  he  said — keeping  the 
other  himself.  At  his  death  his  portion  was  given 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  201 

to  my  father,  who  had  been  named  for  him,  and, 
when  I  was  of  an  age  to  appreciate  it,  my  grand 
father's  half  was  handed  down  to  me." 

"And  your  father — you  are  sure — has  the  other 
part  of  it  now?"  Geoffrey  inquired,  with  pale  lips. 

"Yes,"  Everet  said,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoul 
ders;  "we  have  always  regarded  them  as  heirlooms, 
and  have  been  careful  not  to  lose  them." 

"/  have  a  'pocket-piece'  which  7  have  been  'care 
ful  not  to  lose'  since  it  came  into  my  possession," 
Geoffrey  remarked  in  a  hard,  dry  tone. 

He  took  something  from  one  of  his  pockets  as  he 
spoke,  laid  it  beside  that  other  piece  lying  in  his  palm, 
and  held  it  out  for  Everet  Mapleson  to  see. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

GEOFFREY  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH  AT  LAST 

IT  was  that  portion  of  a  knight-templar's  cross 
which  old  Abe  Brown  had  given  to  Geoffrey  when  he 
was  in  Santa  Fe  the  previous  summer. 

It  matched  Everet's  exactly,  and  the  two  frag 
ments  formed  a  perfect  cross  as  they  lay  together 
in  Geoffrey's  palm. 

Everet  glanced  at  it,  then  shot  one  quick,  fright 
ened  look  into  Geoffrey's  stern  face. 

"Where  did  you  get  it?"  he  demanded,  in  husky 
tones,  and  starting  to  his  feet  in  great  excitement 

"It  was  found  in  Santa  Fe,  where  your  father — 
where  my  father  lost  it." 

"Your  father?"  cried  Everet,  in  a  startled  tone. 

"Yes,  Everet  Mapleson,  you  and  I  are — 
brothers! 

"It  is  a  lie!"  hoarsely  shouted  Everet,  recoiling, 
yet  knowing  but  too  well  that  he  spoke  only  truth; 
"do  you  suppose  I  would  own " 

"Stop!"  commanded  Geoffrey,  sternly;  "do  not 
utter  words  which  you  may  have  bitter  cause  to  re 
gret  later.  This  broken  emblem,  which  I  thought  so 

2C2 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  203 

valueless  when  it  came  into  my  possession,  now  be 
comes  the  strongest  link  in  the  chain  of  evidence  that 
proves  my  identity.  Last  summer  I  traced  this  man 
to  Santa  Fe,  and  there  lost  his  trail.  There  was  only 
this  paltry  piece  of  gold,  with  the  name  William  en 
graven  upon  it,  to  show  that  he  had  ever  been  there. 
I  believed  that  my  father's  name  was  William  Dale, 
for  I  learned  that  a  man  bearing  that  name  had  lived 
in  a  certain  mining  district  of  New  Mexico,  where, 
as  I  was  told,  I  was  born  and  my  mother  had  died. 
I  found  my  old  nurse  and  her  husband,  who  related 
all  they  knew  of  her  life  there,  and  into  whose  care 
my  father  had  given  me  after  her  death.  They,  how 
ever,  did  not  even  know  his  place  of  residence  or  ad 
dress;  letters,  he  told  them,  would  reach  him  super 
scribed  'Lock  Box  43,  Santa  Fe.'  At  Santa  Fe  I  was 
given  this  piece  of  jewelry  by  a  man  who  had  been 
postmaster  there  many  years  ago,  and  who  remem 
bered  the  man  that  lost  it,  but  could  not  recall  his 
name.  Upon  it  was  engraven  'William,'  which  I 
had  been  told  was  my  father's  first  name,  and  now  I 
find  the  other  half  of  the  cross  bearing  that  of  Ma- 
pleson  on  it.  Is  your  father's  name  William  Dale 
Mapleson?"  Geoffrey  suddenly  asked,  as  if  the 
thought  had  just  come  to  him. 

"No,"  was  the  curt,  scornful  reply,  although  it 
was  evident  that  the  speaker  was  striving  to  con 
ceal  the  agitation  which  Geoffrey's  account  had 
caused. 


204,  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

Geoffrey  stood  silently  and  thoughtfully  observ 
ing  the  cross  that  lay  in  his  hand  and  the  name  in 
scribed  upon  it. 

He  no  longer  had  any  doubt  about  his  being  able 
to  solve  the  mystery  of  his  birth,  though  he  greatly 
feared  that  the  solving  would  only  serve  to  confirm 
his  worst  fears. 

"Then,"  he  said,  in  a  cold,  hard  tone,  "he  dropped 
that  of  Mapleson  and  assumed  that  of  Dale  for  pur 
poses  best  known  to  himself,  for  I  know  now,  as 
well  as  I  wish  to,  that  your  father  and  mine  are  one 
and  the  same  person.  I  know  that  he  must  have 
taken  a  beautiful  girl  to  the  mining  region  of  which 
I  have  spoken — that  she  lived  there  with  him  as  his 
wife  under  the  name  of  Dale.  He  called  her  Annie. 
I  have  seen  her  grave,  and  those  who  knew  them  both 
claim  that  he  loved  her  as  his  own  life,  and  was 
broken-hearted  when  she  died.  Whether  she  had 
any  legal  claim  upon  him;  whether  I,  the  child  who 
was  born  to  them  there,  can  claim  honorable  birth 
and  an  honorable  name,  are  points  which  remain  to 
be  proved.  Do  you  know  aught  of  this  story?" 
Geoffrey  demanded  of  Everet,  in  conclusion. 

The  young  man  did  not  reply  for  a  moment. 

He  seemed  to  be  considering  whether  it  would  be 
best  to  conceal  or  proclaim  what  he  had  discovered, 
and  denounce  the  man,  whom  he  had  so  long  hated, 
as  the  illegitimate  son  of  his  father. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  205 

Suddenly  he  threw  back  his  head  in  a  reckless  way, 
an  evil  light  in  his  eyes,  a  curl  of  scorn  on  his  lips. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  do  know  the  story  from  be 
ginning  to  end.  I  know  that  a  girl  named  Annie 
Dale  disappeared  very  mysteriously  from  Richmond 
more  than  twenty  years  ago;  that  she  fled  to  her 
lover,  who  met  her  at  Kansas  City,  and  then  took  her 
to  that  mining  village  among  the  mountains  of  New 
Mexico,  where  she  lived  with  him  as  his  mistress, 
though  nominally  as  his  wife,  until  she  died." 

"That  man  was  William  Mapleson,  your  father?" 
said  Geoffrey,  in  a  tone  that  was  terrible  from  its 
calmness. 

"That  man  was  William  Mapleson,  my  father," 
repeated  Everet,  defiantly,  though  the  blood  mounted 
hotly  to  his  brow  as  he  said  it,  showing  that  he  was 
not  yet  quite  hardened  enough  not  to  feel  something 
of  shame  over  the  confession. 

"Did  he  give  you  the  history  of  that  exceedingly 
honorable  portion  of  his  life?"  Geoffrey  asked,  with 
curling  lips. 

"No ;  I  found  it  out  for  myself.  I  have  never  felt 
at  ease  with  your  resemblance  to  me;  it  has  haunted 
me  day  and  night,"  Everet  replied.  "A  slight  cir 
cumstance  occurred  to  arouse  my  suspicions  that 
there  might  be  some  natural  cause  for  it.  I  began 
to  trace  the  mystery,  and  followed  it  up  until  I 
learned  the  truth — that  you  were  Annie  Dale's  child, 
and  she  was — what  I  have  already  told  you.  I  sup- 


206  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

pose,  in  point  of  fact,  that  we  are,  in  a  certain  way, 
related  to  each  other,"  he  went  on,  with  a  disagree 
able  shrug.  "If,  under  the  circumstances,  you  can 
derive  any  comfort  from  it,  much  good  may  it  do 
you." 

Geoffrey  grew  crimson,  and,  for  a  moment,  his 
eyes  blazed  wrathfully  at  this  taunt. 

"Was  Mr.  William  Mapleson  at  Saratoga  during 
any  portion  of  last  summer?"  he  asked,  struggling 
for  self-control. 

"I  believe  he  ran  up  there  for  a  few  days  when  he 
come  North  to  join  my  mother  at  Newport,"  Everet 
returned,  wondering  what  the  question  could  have  to 
do  with  the  point  under  discussion. 

Geoffrey  glanced  significantly  at  Mr.  Huntress. 

"What  was  his  object  in  registering  there  as  Wil 
liam  Dale?"  he  asked. 

Everet  looked  up,  astonished. 

"He  did  not,"  he  said,  skeptically. 

"He  did.  I  met  him  one  morning  in  Congress 
Park.  He  accosted  me  by  your  name,  believing  me 
to  be  yourself,  and  then  became  greatly  agitated  upon 
being  informed  of  his  mistake  and  told  who  I  was. 
My  suspicions  were  aroused,  for  I  have  always  been 
on  the  alert  to  discover  my  parentage,  and  I  begged 
an  interview  with  him.  He  appointed  one  for  five 
o'clock  at  his  room,  number  forty-five,  at  the  United 
States  Hotel.  I  was  punctual,  but  when  I  inquired 
for  the  gentleman  who  occupied  room  forty-five,  I 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  207 

was  told  that  he  had  left  at  noon.  I  examined  the 
register,  and  found  his  name  entered  as  'William 
Dale,  from  Santa  Fe,  New  Mexico.'  ' 

"Then  it  must  have  been  some  one  else,"  Everet 
affirmed,  perplexed  over  the  affair,  and  yet  instinc 
tively  feeling  that  his  father  must  have  been  con 
cerned  in  it,  though  just  how  he  was  at  a  loss  to 
imagine. 

"That  was  the  thread  by  which  I  traced  him  to 
Santa  Fe,  and  from  there  to  that  mining  village, 
where  I  learned  the  story  of  my  birth  and  my  moth 
er's  death;  and  this  story  will  have  to  be  sifted  to 
the  bottom,"  Geoffrey  concluded  in  a  resolute  tone. 

"Really,  I  do  not  see  what  use  there  will  be  in 
raising  a  row  over  the  affair,"  retorted  Everet,  with 
a  supercilious  glare  at  the  young  man.  "There  are 
hundreds  of  men  who  have  been  rather  gay  and  wild 
in  their  youth,  and  if  there  have  been  girls  in  the 
world  who  were  foolish  enough  to  accept  their  fa 
vors,  it  is  nobody's  business  but  their  own,  and  worse 
than  folly  to  rake  it  over.  Colonel  William  Maple- 
son  is  a  man  who  occupies  an  honorable  position  and 
bears  a  proud  name.  He  is  a  high-tempered  gen 
tleman,  too,  and  I  warn  you  will  brook  no  nonsense 
from  any  one." 

Doctor  Hoyt,  who  had  been  an  interested  listener 
thus  far  during  the  interview,  turned  abruptly  on  his 
heel,  with  an  expression  of  supreme  contempt  at  this 
speech. 


208  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"Honorable  position — proud  name,  forsooth! 
Possesses  more  temper  than  morality,  I  should  judge, 
if  his  son  is  a  specimen  of  the  race,"  he  muttered, 
and  then  passed  upstairs  to  ascertain  if  all  was  going 
well  with  his  fair  patient. 

The  haughty  heir  of  the  house  of  Mapleson 
winced  visibly  beneath  the  scathing  words. 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Geoffrey,  with  deliberate 
emphasis,  in  reply  to  what  he  had  said,  "Colonel 
William  Mapleson  will  have  to  answer  to  me,  per 
sonally,  for  the  wrong — if  wrong  there  was — that 
he  did  my  mother.  Now,  sir,  we  have  had  enough 
of  this  for  to-night,  and  you  can  go!  Shall  I  call  a 
carriage  for  you,  or  do  you  prefer  to  walk?" 

Everet  burned  to  defy  him  in  this,  but  he  knew 
it  would  be  useless  to  resist  the  resolute  purpose 
which  he  read  in  every  line  of  his  stern  face;  so, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  said  he  would  walk; 
and,  with  a  sullen  scowl  on  his  face,  and  wrath  flam 
ing  in  his  heart,  he  left  the  house  and  bent  his  steps 
toward  the  nearest  hotel. 

Neither  Geoffrey  nor  Mr.  Huntress  thought  of  re 
tiring  that  night,  though  the  physician  soon  after 
went  away,  saying  Gladys  would  do  well  enough  for 
several  hours,  and  he  would  come  around  in  the 
morning;  while  Mrs.  Huntress  caught  a  little  sleep 
upon  the  lounge  in  her  daughter's  room.  They  sat 
together  until  morning,  reviewing  Geoffrey's  life  and 
laying  plans  for  future  action. 


When  morning  dawned  it  broke  upon  a  saddened, 
yet,  withal,  upon  a  thankful  household.  Saddened 
because  of  the  terrible  ending  of  all  the  bright  hopes 
which  they  had  cherished  only  a  few  hours  previous, 
but  thankful  because  Gladys  awoke  once  more  her 
self,  and  that  no  harm  had  befallen  Geoff,  as  they 
feared,  during  his  long  absence  from  home. 

But  Gladys  was  very  sad,  and  could  not  refer  to 
the  events  of  the  night  before  without  becoming 
greatly  agitated;  but  her  long  rest  had  given  her 
strength  and  more  of  self-control,  while  she  had  been 
greatly  comforted  upon  being  told  that  she  need 
never  look  upon  Everet  Mapleson's  face  again  un 
less  she  chose,  and  that  an  appeal  to  the  law  would 
soon  free  her  from  the  hateful  tie  that  bound  her  to 
him. 

She  nearly  broke  down  again,  however,  when 
Geoffrey  went  to  her,  late  in  the  day,  and  clung  to 
him  almost  hysterically;  but  he  spoke  cheerfully,  and 
tried  to  comfort  her  with  brighter  hopes  for  the  fu 
ture,  although  his  own  heart  was  terribly  burdened 
by  the  great  sorrow  that  had  fallen  so  like  a  thunder 
bolt  upon  them  both. 

"Oh,  Geoff,"  Gladys  burst  forth  at  one  time  dur 
ing  the  interview,  "must  all  Brooklyn  and  New  York 
ring  with  this  dreadful  story?" 

"No,  my  darling.  Uncle  August  and  I  have  been 
considering  that  matter,  and  we  think  that  no  one, 
save  those  of  us  who  already  know  the  truth,  need 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

learn  anything  of  it.  I  am  surprised  that  your  father 
and  mother  were  enabled  to  act  so  discreetly  during 
all  the  confusion  last  night — not  even  a  servant  sus 
pects  anything  wrong  as  yet,  Geoffrey  said,  reassur 
ingly. 

"But  will  he  keep  still  about  it?"  Gladys  asked, 
with  a  shiver  of  aversion,  as  her  mind  reverted  to 
Everet  Mapleson. 

"I  think  he  will  be  very  glad  to,  dear — at  least  for 
the  present,"  Geoffrey  said,  confidently,  "until  he 
finds  out  just  what  steps  we  intend  to  take.  It  would 
be  very  mortifying  to  him  to  have  his  villainy  dis 
covered,  and  become  a  target  for  everybody  to  shoot 
at,  because  he  failed  to  get  possession  of  the  bride  he 
had  strained  every  nerve  to  win,  while  we  shall  do 
our  utmost  as  soon  as  I  return." 

"Return!  Where  are  you  going?" 

"Ah!  has  not  Aunt  Alice  told  you?  I  am  going 
South  immediately,  to  try  to  get  at  the  truth  regard 
ing  my  birth." 

He  then  told  her  something  of  the  revelations  of 
last  night,  and  she  was  greatly  astonished  and 
shocked  to  learn  of  his  relation  to  the  man  who  had 
so  injured  them  both. 

"Brothers,  Geoff?  Just  think  of  it!"  she  cried, 
wonderingly. 

He  smiled  somewhat  bitterly. 

"I  fear  if  what  he  says  is  true,  that  the  house  of 
Mapleson  will  not  own  me  either  as  a  son  or  a 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  211 

brother.  However,  I  wish  to  know  the  truth,  what 
ever  it  is,  and  then  just  as  soon  as  I  return  we  will 
try  to  have  that  wretched  fraud  of  last  night  recti 
fied." 

"Can  it  be  done  without  publicity,  Geoffrey?" 
Gladys  asked,  anxiously. 

"Yes,  I  believe  it  can  be  arranged  so  that  very 
few  will  ever  be  any  wiser  for  what  has  happened." 

This  was  one  of  the  things  that  Mr.  Huntress 
and  Geoffrey  had  talked  of  the  night  before,  and  the 
events  of  the  next  few  days  confirmed  them  in  the 
belief  that  all  scandal  might  be  avoided. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Huntress  went  to  the  house 
where  Everet  Mapleson  had  been  accustomed  to 
stop,  but  he  was  not  to  be  found  there.  He  had 
left  nearly  two  weeks  previous — the  day  after  he  had 
met  Gladys  at  the  opera — they  discovered  later. 

Afterward  they  learned  that  he  had  hidden  him 
self  in  a  little  town  a  few  miles  out  of  the  city,  and 
there  matured  his  plans,  and  hired  his  accomplice 
to  assist  in  his  miserable  plot  on  the  evening  of  the 
wedding. 

Upon  leaving  the  Huntress  mansion,  after  his 
interview  with  Geoffrey,  and  the  discovery  that  he 
knew  so  much  of  his  history,  he  had  stolen  away  to 
the  nearest  hotel,  where,  after  thinking  everything 
quickly  over,  he  began  to  realize  that  he  could  never 
compel  Gladys  to  acknowledge  herself  as  his  wife; 


5212  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

he  believed,  too,  that  the  courts  would,  upon  learning 
the  facts,  annul  the  marriage. 

"Oh !  if  I  had  only  kept  still,  and  got  her  away 
before  the  deception  was  discovered,  my  triumph 
would  have  been  complete,  and  now  I  have  lost 
everything,"  he  groaned  in  impotent  wrath;  and  yet 
he  was  so  furious  at  Geoffrey  that  he  vowed  he 
would  make  a  desperate  fight  against  a  divorce,  if 
for  nothing  but  to  keep  the  lovers  apart.  But  until 
they  should  take  some  decisive  step  he  resolved  to 
kept  still  and  out  of  sight,  for  he  also  was  far  too 
proud  to  care  to  become  the  subject  of  a  scandal. 

It  occasioned  no  surprise  among  the  friends  of 
the  Huntress  family  when  they  learned  that  "young 
Mrs.  Huntress"  had  not  been  able  to  sail  for  Europe, 
and  that  the  trip  was  to  be  postponed  for  at  least 
another  month — possibly  until  spring. 

Her  physician  also  prohibited  all  callers  and  ex 
citement,  giving  as  a  reason  that  her  strength  had 
been  overtaxed,  and  she  had  barely  escaped  nervous 
prostration. 

People  did  not  wonder  at  this;  it  appeared  very 
reasonable,  for  they  knew  the  season  had  been  very 
gay,  that  the  young  couple  had  been  in  great  demand, 
and  all  this,  together  writh  the  excitement  and  care  of 
preparing  for  such  a  wedding,  was  enough  to  wear 
out  any  young  girl. 

So  Gladys  and  her  mother  remained  quietly  at 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  21S 

home,  hedged  about  with  these  restrictions,  while 
Geoffrey  and  Mr.  Huntress  went  South. 

Mr.  Huntress  had  insisted  upon  accompanying  the 
young  man,  for  he  was  determined  that  full  justice 
should  be  done  the  boy  whom  he  had  reared  and 
loved  as  his  own  son.  If  Colonel  Mapleson  had 
wronged  his  mother  he  should  at  least  tell  the  story 
kindly  and  courteously  to  her  child;  if  he  had  inher 
ited  anything  from  her  it  would  be  his  business  to  see 
that  he  had  his  rights. 

The  weary  travelers  reached  Richmond  late  one 
afternoon.  They  found  that  Vue  de  1'Eau — Colonel 
Mapleson's  estate — was  a  long  distance  from  the 
city,  and  they  would  be  obliged  to  hire  some  convey 
ance  thither. 

This  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  accomplish,  for  the 
night  promised  to  be  very  dark,  the  roads  were 
muddy,  and  the  weather  unusually  cold  for  that 
genial  climate.  But  by  offering  a  generous  sum,  for 
he  was  anxious  to  have  the  ordeal  before  them  over 
as  soon  as  possible,  Mr.  Huntress  succeeded  in  get 
ting  a  man  to  take  them  to  their  destination. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  when  they  at  last  reached  the 
home  of  the  proud  Southerner,  and  the  two  men 
alighted  before  the  door  with  grave  faces,  and  nerves 
that  were  none  too  steady,  in  contemplation  of  the 
interview  before  them. 

"Yes,  sah,  Massa  Mapleson's  home,  sail,"  the 
dusky-skinned  servant  replied  to  Mr.  Huntress* 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

inquiry,  and  then  obsequiously  led  the  way  through 
the  magnificent  hall,  which  divided  the  stately  man 
sion  through  the  center,  to  a  spacious  and  richly  fur 
nished  library  at  its  lower  end. 

UA.  D.  Huntress  and  Son,"  Mr.  Huntress  wrote 
on  a  card,  and  handed  it  to  the  servant  to  be  given 
to  his  master,  and  then  they  sat  down  to  await  his 
coming. 

Five  minutes  later — though  it  seemed  as  many 
hours  to  those  impatient  men — Colonel  Mapleson 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  opposite  August  Hunt 
ress. 

He  was  a  tall,  rather  spare  man,  with  a  finely 
shaped  head  proudly  poised  above  a  pair  of  military- 
looking  shoulders,  a  massive  brow,  surmounted  by  a 
wealth  of  iron-gray  hair,  regular,  handsome,  yet 
rather  haughty  features,  a  keen,  eagle-glancing  blue 
eye,  and  an  energetic  manner. 

Geoffrey  recognized  him  instantly.  It  was  the 
same  man  whom  he  had  met  in  Congress  Park  at 
Saratoga. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Huntress,"  remarked  the  gentleman, 
courteously,  as  his  visitor  arose  to  greet  him;  "glad 
to  see  you,  sir — glad  to  see  you  I" 

Then  espying  Geoffrey  whom,  having  been  seated 
on  his  right  and  a  little  back  of  him  as  he  entered, 
he  had  not  at  first  seen,  he  started,  his  face  lighted 
with  pleasure,  and  he  went  toward  him  with  out 
stretched  hand,  exclaiming,  heartily: 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  215 

"Holloa!  Everet!  where  on  earth  did  you  drop 
from?  I  supposed  you  still  in  New  York  having  a 
gay  time." 

Mr.  Huntress  came  forward  at  this,  saying: 

"You  have  made  a  slight  mistake,  sir;  this  young 
man  is  my  son  by  adoption — Mr.  Geoffrey  Dale 
Huntress." 

Colonel  Mapleson  recoiled,  an  ashen  pallor  over 
spreading  his  face  at  these  words,  a  look  of  fear  fol 
lowed  by  one  of  dismay,  then  of  conviction  springing 
into  his  eyes,  which  were  fastened  upon  that  familiar 
yet  strange  face. 

Then  he  staggered  toward  a  chair,  sank  heavily 
into  it,  his  head  dropping  upon  his  breast,  while  he 
murmured,  in  a  tone  of  awe  mingled  with  agony: 

"At  last!  at  last  it  has  come!" 

There  was  an  awkward  silence  after  that,  during 
which  the  man  appeared  to  be  absorbed  in  painful 
thought. 

Mr.  Huntress  broke  it  at  last  by  remarking  in  a 
grave  tone: 

"I  told  you,  Colonel  Mapleson,  that  this  is  my 
son  by  adoption;  we  have  recently  learned  that  he  is 
your  son  by  the  more  sacred  tie  of  blood,  and  our 
errand  here  to-night  is  to  learn  how  much  or — how 
little  that  may  mean." 

The  man  sat  suddenly  erect,  as  his  guest  concluded 
this  speech,  and  looked  almost  imperial  as  he  bent 
his  keen,  flashing  eye  full  upon  August  Huntress,  a 


216  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

firm  purpose  written  on  his  face,  and  a  look,  also, 
which  plainly  told  that  he  had  never  yet  turned  his 
back  upon  danger,  trouble,  or  an  enemy,  and  never 
would. 

"You  shall  learn  that,  sir."  he  said  in  a  clear, 
proud  tone;  ''Annie  Dale  was  my  lawful  wife,  and 
he,"  extending  a  hand  that  trembled  visibly  toward 
Geoffrey,  "is  our  son!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FURTHER  DEVELOPMENTS 

MR.  HUNTRESS  was  struck  dumb  with  astonish 
ment  by  this  unexpected  declaration;  but  Geoffrey 
sprang  forward,  clasped  that  extended  hand,  and 
exclaimed,  in  a  voice  that  shook  with  emotion: 

"Oh,  sir,  I  can  never  express  my  gratitude  for  that 
blessed  assurance !" 

Colonel  Mapleson's  figures  closed  almost  con 
vulsively  over  the  young  man's  hand,  while  he  turned 
his  gaze  upon  him,  searching  his  face  with  eager, 
hungry  eyes. 

"Geoffrey,"  he  murmured,  in  a  trembling  tone, 
"you  are  my  Annie's  boy." 

His  lips  quivered,  a  great  trembling  seized  him, 
and  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  breaking  down  utterly. 

It  was  several  minutes  before  he  could  collect  him 
self  sufficiently  to  speak,  although  he  struggled  man 
fully  with  his  emotion. 

At  length  he  turned  again  to  Geoffrey,  to  whose 
hand  he  had  clung  all  the  time,  saying: 

"How  like  you  are  to  Everet,  my  other  son.  I 
mistook  you  for  him  when  I  first  entered  the  room." 

217 


218  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"So  you  did  upon  one  other  occasion  if  you  remem 
ber,"  Geoffrey  returned. 

The  man  made  a  gesture  of  pain. 

"Ah !"  he  said,  humbly,  "you  will  forgive  me,  I 
hope,  when  I  explain  why  I  avoided  you  at  that  time. 
But  this  meeting  has  unnerved  me.  I  find  myself 
unable  to  either  think  or  speak  collectedly.  Will  you 
both  remove  your  outer  coats,  and  then,  Geoffrey, 
tell  me  the  story  of  your  life — of  your  adoption  by 
this  gentleman,  while  I  try  to  recover  myself.  But 
first  tell  me  have  you  both  dined?  Shall  I  not  order 
something  for  you?"  he  concluded,  with  thoughtful 
hospitality. 

They  assured  him  that  they  had  dined  just  before 
leaving  Richmond,  and  needed  nothing;  and  then, 
having  removed  their  overcoats  as  requested,  Geof 
frey  began  his  tale. 

His  face  had  brightened  wonderfully  during  the 
last  few  moments;  the  expression  of  tense  anxiety,  of 
doubt  and  apprehension,  had  all  faded  from  it,  and 
he  looked  more  like  himself  than  he  had  done  since 
the  day  of  his  interrupted  marriage;  it  was  such  a 
blessed  relief  to  know  that  no  stigma  was  attached 
to  his  birth. 

He  told  all  that  he  had  learned  of  his  history 
through  Jack  and  Margery  Henly,  and  how  he  had 
so  strangely  come  upon  them  while  striving  to  follow 
up  the  faint  clew  that  he  had  obtained  of  his  father 
at  Saratoga;  of  his  having  been  found  so  helpless 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  819 

and  forlorn  in  New  York  by  Mr.  Huntress;  of  the 
restoration  of  his  mental  faculties  through  his  kind 
ness  and  interest,  and  of  the  happy  life  that  he  had 
since  led  as  a  member  of  his  household.  The  only 
incidents  that  he  omitted  were  those  in  which  Everet 
— his  father's  other  son — had  been  concerned,  and 
which  he  would  not  then  pain  him  by  mentioning, 
though  possibly  they  might  have  to  told  later. 

Colonel  Mapleson  listened  with  rapt  interest  and 
attention  throughout  the  whole  recital,  and  appeared 
deeply  moved  during  that  portion  which  related  to 
his  mental  infirmity. 

When  it  was  all  told,  he  seemed  to  fall  into  a 
painful  reverie;  his  face  was  inexpressibly  sad,  his 
attitude  despondent,  as  if  memories  of  the  past, 
which  had  thus  been  aroused,  came  crowding  thick 
and  fast  upon  him,  filling  him  with  sorrow  and 
regret. 

Finally  he  aroused  himself  with  a  long-drawn  sigh, 
and,  rising,  went  to  a  handsome  desk  which  was  in 
the  room,  in  which  he  unlocked  a  small  drawer,  and 
taking  a  box  from  it,  brought  and  laid  it  upon  the 
table  by  which  Geoffrey  was  sitting. 

"I  had  grown  to  feel  almost  as  if  this  portion  of 
my  life  had  been  blotted  out,"  he  said;  "at  least  until 
it  was  so  suddenly  recalled  to  me  by  meeting  you  at 
Saratoga  last  summer.  But  our  mistakes  rise  up  and 
confront  us;  our  sins  find  us  out  when  we  least  expect 


220  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

i1-.    Open  that  box,  Geoffrey,  and  draw  what  comfort 
you  can  from  its  contents." 

Geoffrey's  face  flushed  at  being  thus  addressed. 

He  had  come  there  with  his  heart  full  of  bitter 
ness  toward  the  man  who,  he  believed,  had  done  his 
mother  an  irreparable  wrong. 

But  now  he  found  those  feelings  fast  changing  to 
pity  and  sympathy  for  him.  His  manly  confession 
had  more  than  half  conquered  him  at  the  outset, 
while  his  tender  memories  of  the  acknowledged  wife 
of  his  youth,  and  the  fond  inflection  with  which  his 
voice  was  filled  every  time  he  uttered  his  own  name, 
told  him  that  some  of  his  dearest  hopes  had  clus 
tered  around  those  early  days  when  he  had  been  a 
wee  infant,  and  stirred  a  tenderness  within  his  own 
heart  for  his  father  which  he  had  never  imagined  he 
could  feel. 

He  untied  the  faded  blue  ribbon  that  bound  the 
box  which  Colonel  Mapleson  had  given  him,  with 
fingers  that  trembled  visibly,  removed  the  lid  and 
found  a  thin,  folded  paper  within. 

He  opened  it.  It  was  an  old  telegram  addressed 
to  William  Mapleson,  Santa  Fe,  New  Mexico,  and 
contained  these  words: 

"I  will  come,  Will.     Start  at  ten  on  the  eighth," 

There  was  another  paper  underneath  this,  and 
his  heart  beat  rapidly  as  he  drew  it  forth. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

A  blur  came  before  his  eyes,  a  nervous  trembling 
seized  him,  making  the  paper  rattle  in  his  grasp,  for 
something  seemed  to  tell  him,  even  before  he  looked 
at  it,  what  it  was. 

Yes,  it  was  even  as  he  had  surmised,  for  there,  in 
black  and  white,  as  plain  and  strong  as  the  law  could 
make  it,  was  the  certificate  which  proved  the  legality 
of  the  bond  that  united  William  Mapleson  and  Annie 
Dale,  and  dated  only  a  few  days  later  than  the  tele 
gram  which  he  had  just  seen. 

They  had  been  married  in  Kansas  City  immedi 
ately  upon  the  arrival  of  Miss  Dale,  by  the  Rev.  Dr. 
A.  K.  Bailey,  of  the  Episcopal  Church. 

A  song  of  thanksgiving  arose  in  Geoffrey's  heart 
as  he  read  this,  for  it  proved  that  his  mother  had 
been  an  honored  wife — that  no  stain  had  ever  rested 
on  his  birth;  he  was  the  legitimate  son  of  William 
and  Annie  Mapleson,  and  the  burden  of  fear  and 
dread,  that  had  so  long  oppressed  him,  was  rolled 
away  from  his  heart  at  last. 

There  was  something  else  in  one  corner  at  the 
bottom  of  the  box — a  tiny  case  of  black  morocco. 

Geoffrey  seized  it  eagerly,  turned  back  the  lid,  and 
a  small,  heavy  ring  of  gold  lay  before  him. 

His  heart  leaped  anew  at  the  sight  of  it;  nothing 
had  been  neglected  to  do  honor  to  the  beautiful  girl 
whom  William  Mapleson  had  loved. 

He  turned  it  toward  the  light  and  read  on  its 
inner  surface:  "W.  M.  to  A.  D.,  Aug.  I2th,  18 — " 


222  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

A  heavy  sigh,  that  was  almost  a  sob,  burst  from 
him,  though  it  was  one  of  joy  instead  of  sorrow. 

"A  fortune  could  not  purchase  these  from  me,"  he 
said,  looking  up  with  moist  eyes,  while  he  reverently 
laid  back  in  their  place  the  priceless  treasures  he  had 
found. 

A  spasm  of  pain  contracted  Colonel  Mapleson's 
face  at  his  words,  for  he  could  well  understand  the 
feeling  that  lay  behind  them,  and  he  could  not  fail  to 
realize,  too,  something  of  the  questionable  position 
which  his  boy  had  occupied  all  his  life. 

He  was  very  grave  and  thoughtful,  and  Mr.  Hunt 
ress,  as  he  watched  him,  could  see  that  he  was  strug 
gling  with  some  weighty  matter  that  lay  upon  his 
conscience. 

At  length  he  lifted  his  head,  with  a  quick,  reso 
lute  motion,  showing  that  he  had  settled  it,  whatever 
it  was. 

"Mr.  Huntress  and  Geoffrey,"  he  said,  glancing 
from  one  to  the  other;  "I  have  a  long  story  to  tell 
you,  and  a  hard  one,  too,  for  not  a  soul  in  the  world 
save  you  two  and  the  clergyman  who  performed  the 
ceremony  really  knows  that  I  was  ever  married  be 
fore  the  present  Mrs.  Mapleson  became  my  wife. 
I  am  bound  to  tell  this  story  not  only  to  you,  but  also 
to  her;  that,  as  you  cannot  fail  to  understand,  will 
be  the  hardest  part  of  my  confession." 

Both  his  listeners  sympathized  with  him  deeply. 
They  could  easily  perceive  how  humiliating  it  would 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

be  to  this  proud  man  to  make  such  a  disclosure  to  his 
wife  after  having  deceived  her  for  more  than  a  score 
of  years;  yet  both  knew  that  it  was  an  act  of  justice 
which  should  be  performed  in  order  that  Geoffrey 
might  be  acknowledged  as  a  son  and  heir,  and  thus 
attain  his  proper  position  in  the  world. 

"It  is  a  painful  story,  too,"  the  colonel  went  on, 
"for  Geoffrey.  I  loved  your  mother  with  all  the 
strength  of  my  nature — as  a  man  loves  but  once  in 
his  life — and  when  I  lost  her  the  world  became  a 
blank  to  me,  while  even  now  it  is  almost  more  than 
I  can  bear  to  speak  of  it.  I  cannot  tear  the  wound 
open  and  live  over  all  that  experience  more  than 
once,  and  if  you  do  not  object,  I  would  like  Mrs. 
Mapleson  to  be  present  while  I  make  my  confession." 

Mr.  Huntress  urged  him  to  act  according  to  his 
own  wishes  in  the  matter.  As  far  as  he  was  con 
cerned  Mrs.  Mapleson's  presence  would  make  no 
difference,  unless  the  situation  should  prove  to  be 
too  trying  for  her. 

"She  must  know  it  within  a  few  hours  at  the 
farthest,  and  it  will  also  be  necessary  for  her  to  meet 
you;  so  it  might  as  well  be  done  at  once.  What  do 
you  say,  Geoffrey?"  Colonel  Mapleson  asked,  turn 
ing  to  his  son. 

"Do  just  what  you  think  will  be  for  the  best,  sir,'* 
he  replied;  and  his  father  immediately  arose  and  left 
the  room. 

"Estelle,"  he  said,  going  into  his  wife's  boudoir, 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HO^OR 

where  she  sat,  handsome  and  stately,  reading  the 
latest  magazine,  "will  you  come  down  to  the  library 
for  a  little  while.  I  have  some  callers  to  whom  I 
wish  to  introduce  you." 

Something  unusual  in  her  husband's  tone  made 
Mrs.  Mapleson  drop  her  book  and  search  his 
face. 

He  was  white  to  his  lips. 

"Why,  William,  what  ails  you?  Has  anything 
happened  to  Everet?"  she  questioned,  anxiously,  her 
motherhood  aroused  for  her  child. 

"Everet  is  well,  so  far  as  I  know,  but " 

"Surely  you  are  ill,  or  you  have  bad  news?"  she 
interrupted. 

"No,  I  am  not  ill,  although  some  business  of  a 
painful  nature  has  upset  me  a  trifle,"  he  answered, 
knowing  that  he  was  looking  wretched,  and  not 
attempting  to  conceal  his  agitation. 

"You  know  I  do  not  like  to  be  mixed  up  with  busi 
ness  transactions,"  his  wife  replied,  with  an  impa 
tient  shrug  of  her  shapely  shoulders. 

"But  I  particularly  desire  your  presence  while  I 
make  a  statement  to  those  gentlemen,"  Colonel  Ma 
pleson  said,  striving  to  speak  more  calmly,  though 
the  hand  that  was  resting  on  the  back  of  Mrs.  Maple- 
son's  chair  trembled  in  a  way  to  really  startle  her. 

"Why,  William,"  she  said,  facing  him,  "have  you 
been  getting  into  financial  trouble  at  your  time  of 
life?" 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  225 

"No;  it  is  an  error — a  mistake  made  long  years 
r.go  that  I  wish  to  rectify,"  he  gravely  answered. 

"Who  are  these  people?"  she  asked,  still  search 
ing  his  face  earnestly. 

"A  Mr.  Huntress  and  his  son  from  New  York." 
"Huntress !"     repeated     the     lady,     reflectively. 
"Where  have  I  heard  that  name  before  ?" 

"Never  mind  now,  Estelle;  you  can  think  of  that 
some  other  time.  Please  do  not  keep  me  waiting." 
He  took  her  hand,  laid  it  on  his  arm,  and  led  her 
from  the  room,  while  she  wondered  to  see  her  proud 
husband  in  that  mood,  for  there  was  a  gentleness 
about  him,  mingled  with  a  humility  and  a  depreca 
tory  air,  that  was  entirely  foreign  to  him. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  either  as  they  passed 
down  the  grand  staircase.  Colonel  Mapleson  was 
too  absorbed  in  the  painful  duty  before  him,  while 
"coming  events"  seemed  already  to  have  "cast  their 
shadows"  upon  the  handsome  face  and  proud  spirit 
of  his  wife. 

A  painful  expression  almost  convulsed  Colonel 
Mapleson's  face  as  he  paused  irresolutely  a  moment 
before  the  library  door. 

But  his  hesitation  was  only  for  an  instant. 
The  next  he  turned  the  handle,  led  his  wife  within 
the  room,  when  he  closed  and  locked  the  door  to 
insure  freedom  from  interruption. 

Then  he  led  his  companion  straight  to  August 
Huntress. 


226  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"Mr.  Huntress,  allow  me  to  present  to  you  my 
wife,  Mrs.  Mapleson,"  he  said  by  way  of  introduc 
tion. 

The  lady  glanced  into  the  gentleman's  face.  In 
stantly  her  own  froze  into  a  look  of  horror;  a  shock 
went  quivering  through  her  frame  like  the  blow  of 
an  ax  upon  a  tree.  She  started  wildly  back  from 
him,  her  eyes  dilated,  her  lips  apart. 

"August  Damon!"  she  gasped,  and  sank  fainting 
to  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
COLONEL  MAPLESON'S  STORY 

COLONEL  MAPLESON  sprang  forward  to  lift  his 
wife,  amazement  depicted  on  every  feature. 

August  Huntress  appeared  like  a  man  suddenly 
deprived  of  his  senses,  and  stood  spellbound,  gaz 
ing  with  a  look  of  awe  upon  the  prostrate  woman  be 
fore  him,  whom  he  instantly  recognized  as  Mrs. 
Marston,  the  mother  of  Gladys. 

Geoffrey,  after  one  astonished  glance  at  this  vivid 
tableau,  started  forward  to  assist  Colonel  Mapleson 
to  bear  his  wife  to  a  sofa  at  one  end  of  the  room. 

"Shall  I  ring  for  assistance?"  Mr.  Huntress  asked, 
rousing  himself  with  an  effort  from  his  state  of 
stupefaction,  and  reaching  toward  a  bell-pull. 

Colonel  Mapleson  turned  sharply  upon  him,  with 
a  stern,  troubled  face. 

"Did  you  ever  meet  my  wife  before,  sir?"  he 
demanded. 

"I — I  think  I  did,  once — years  ago,"  Mr.  Hunt 
ress  replied,  shrinking  from  compromising  the  lady, 
yet  forced  to  tell  the  truth. 

"Where?"  was  the  terse  query. 
227 


228  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"Perhaps,"  returned  the  gentleman  addressed, 
while  he  met  his  host's  searching  gaze  frankly  and 
steadily,  yet  with  conscious  dignity;  "perhaps  it 
would  be  as  well  to  give  our  immediate  attention  to 
the  recovery  of  your  wife,  and  allow  her  to  make  her 
own  explanations  when  she  is  able  to  do  so." 

It  was  a  polite  way  of  telling  him  that  he  would 
say  nothing  more  until  Mrs.  Mapleson  gave  him  per 
mission  to  do  so. 

Colonel  Mapleson  bowed  acquiescence. 

"Hand  me  a  glass  of  water,  if  you  please,"  he  said 
to  Geoffrey,  and  glancing  toward  a  table  on  which 
there  was  a  water  service.  "We  will  do  what  we 
can  for  her  ourselves,  without  having  any  prying 
servants  about.  I  do  not  believe  my  wife  ever  fainted 
before." 

He  sprinkled  her  face  vigorously,  bathing  her 
temples,  and  chafing  her  hands,  to  restore  circula 
tion. 

She  began  to  recover  almost  immediately,  and 
before  the  expiration  of  ten  minutes  was  able  to  sit 
up,  and  called  for  water  to  drink. 

Her  self-possession  returned  at  the  same  time,  and 
looking  up  in  her  husband's  face,  with  her  usual 
brilliant  smile,  as  she  passed  back  her  empty  glass, 
she  remarked: 

"I  hope,  William,  that  you  and  your  guests  will  ex 
cuse  my  sudden  indisposition.  It  was  a  startling 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  229 

greeting,   a  sorry  welcome  to  strangers.      But  you 
did  not  present  me  to  the  other  gentleman." 

She  glanced  inquiringly  about  for  Geoffrey,  who 
was  standing  a  little  back  of  her. 

As  their  eyes  met,  she  started,  opening  her  lips  as 
if  about  to  address  him,  believing  him  for  the  instant 
to  be  Everet. 

But  her  mind  worked  very  rapidly,  and  she 
checked  herself. 

She  remembered  that  she  had  seen  a  young  man  at 
Yale  who  strangely  resembled  her  son,  and  that  his 
name  was  Huntress. 

This  must  be  he.  But  what  could  he  want  there 
in  her  home?  And  why  had  his  coming  so  disturbed 
her  husband,  who  was  usually  the  coolest  and  most 
collected  of  men? 

The  blood  suddenly  leaped  to  her  temples,  and 
then  as  quickly  receded,  leaving  her  very  pale,  as  the 
answer  throbbed  in  her  brain:  "A  secret  in  his  early 
life." 

Colonel  Mapleson  was  watching  her  every  expres 
sion;  he  marked  the  quick  color,  then  her  pallor, 
while  he  wondered  what  secret  of  her  past  life  lay  in 
her  acquaintance  with  August  Damon  Huntress. 

He,  however,  introduced  Geoffrey,  whom  Mrs. 
Mapleson  greeted  very  graciously,  remarking  that 
she  believed  she  had  seen  him  at  the  last  commence 
ment  of  Yale,  when  he  had  taken  his  degree  at  the 
same  time  with  her  son,  "whom,"  she  added,  with  a 


230  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

covert  glance  at  her  husband,  "you  resemble  to  a 
remarkable  degree." 

Colonel  Mapleson's  heart  throbbed  heavily.  He 
knew  the  moment  had  come  when  he  must  unvail  a 
portion  of  his  life  which  he  had  believed  was  buried 
in  oblivion. 

"Estelle,"  he  began,  taking  a  chair  and  turning 
his  face  a  little  from  her,  "my  object  in  asking  you 
to  meet  these  gentlemen  was  because  I  have  a  con 
fession  to  make  to  them,  and — to  you;  a  confession 
of  such  a  painful  nature  that  I  felt  I  could  make  it 
only  once,  therefore  I  wish  you  to  hear  it  at  the  same 
time." 

Mrs.  Mapleson  glanced  from  him  to  Geoffrey. 
She  was  very  quick,  and  immediately  she  recalled 
what  Dr.  Turner,  of  Boston,  had  told  her  only  the 
previous  summer;  for  it  was  she  who  had  been  his 
visitor  that  day;  she  who  had  been  searching  for 
August  Damon's  address  in  the  Boston  Directory. 
She  remembered  he  had  told  her  that  the  man  for 
whom  she  was  inquiring  had  adopted  and  was  edu 
cating  a  boy  of  great  promise,  and  now,  in  view  of 
his  wonderful  resemblance  to  Everet,  she  began  to 
suspect  something  of  the  nature  of  her  husband's 
confession. 

"It  is  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world,"  she 
thought,  as  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  Mr.  Huntress, 
and  realized  who  his  children,  by  adoption,  were. 

"It  is  the  strangest    thing    in    the    world,"    was 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  231 

echoed  in  Mr.  Huntress'  brain,  as  he  met  her  glance, 
and,  with  a  sudden  heart-throb  of  joy,  realized  some 
thing  that  she  did  not. 

"I  will  go  back  as  far  as  my  boyhood,"  Colonel 
Mapleson  resumed.  You  have  heard  me  say, 
Estelle,  that  I  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  Vue  de 
1'Eau,  often  spending  weeks  and  sometimes  months 
with  Uncle  Jabez  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  think  I  could 
not  have  been  more  than  twelve,  when,  during  one 
of  those  visits,  I  became  acquainted  with  a  young  girl 
just  about  my  own  age,  who  resided  near  here  with 
her  mother.  I  refer  to  Annie  Dale." 

Mrs.  Mapleson  gave  a  violent  start  at  this;  a  light 
broke  over  her  face,  which  instantly  became  crimson, 
then  grew  as  suddenly  white. 

"We  became  very  fond  of  each  other,"  her  hus 
band  proceeded,  without  noticing  her  emotion,  "and 
we  were  together  day  after  day,  week  after  week, 
playing  ball,  hoop,  battledore  and  shuttlecock,  sail 
ing  our  boats  together  on  the  stream  which  feeds  the 
pond  that  used  to  run  the  old  mill,  riding  horseback 
together — in  fact,  were  scarcely  separated  from  the 
beginning  of  my  stay  until  its  end.  It  was  always 
the  same  every  time  I  came;  I  always  sought  my 
charming  little  companion  on  the  day  of  my  arrival, 
and  gave  her  my  last  good-by  when  I  went  away. 

"This  went  on  for  several  years,  until  I  grew  to 
love  her  with  all  the  strength  of  my  young  heart, 
and  I  fondly  believed  she  returned  my  affections, 


£32  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

although  she  was  so  modest  and  shy  that  she  never 
betrayed  it,  at  least  after  she  grew  to  womanhood, 
save  by  evincing  pleasure  and  a  sort  of  trustful  con 
tent  in  my  society. 

"There  came  a  time  when  I  resolved  to  confess 
my  feelings  toward  her  and  learn  if  possible  if  she 
returned  them,  but  before  the  time  for  my  visit 
arrived  that  year,  Uncle  Jabez  died  and  everything 
was  changed.  This  uncle,"  said  Colonel  Mapleson, 
glancing  from  Mr.  Huntress  to  Geoffrey,  "made  a 
very  singular  will — a  very  arbitrary  and  unnatural 
will.  He  divided  the  whole  of  his  property,  which 
was  very  large,  into  two  portions,  one  of  which  he 
bequeathed  to  me,  the  other  to  his  niece,  Miss  Estelle 
Everet,  who  is  now  my  wife — upon  the  condition 
that  we  would  marry  each  other.  He  gave  us  until 
Miss  Everet  would  be  twenty-five  to  make  up  our 
minds;  if  we  both  refused  to  comply  with  his  wishes 
at  the  end  of  that  time,  and  each  married  some  one 
else,  the  whole  fortune  was  to  go  to  a  certain  Robert 
Dale,  who  was  first  cousin  to  our  uncle.  If  either 
of  us  died  during  that  time,  such  an  event  would  free 
the  other  party  and  he  or  she  would  inherit  the  for 
tune  thus  left;  if  either  married  during  that  time  the 
same  result  was  to  follow.  I  was  at  that  time  in  my 
twenty-first  year,  Miss  Everet  was  seventeen. 

"You  can  perhaps  imagine  something  of  my  feel 
ings  upon  learning  the  contents  of  this  will.  I  had 
always  expected  to  inherit  a  share  of  my  uncle's 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  233 

property,  for  I  was  a  favorite  with  him,  and  he  had 
hinted  that  I  was  to  be  his  heir;  but  I  had  never 
dreamed  of  being  hampered  with  any  such  arbitrary 
conditions.  I  was  very  indignant.  So  was  my  cousin, 
for,  although  we  had  always  been  the  best  of  friends, 
we  felt  that  this  was  a  matter  in  which  we  should 
have  been  left  free  to  choose  for  ourselves.  How 
ever,  the  property  was  divided  between  us,  and  we 
found  ourselves  independent.  I  was  an  orphan,  and 
had  been  entirely  dependent  on  my  uncle;  I  had  just 
completed  my  education,  and  was  thinking  of  estab 
lishing  myself  in  some  business,  when  I  suddenly 
awoke  to  the  fact  that  I  was  rich  and  could  live  as 
I  chose,  provided,  at  the  expiration  of  eight  years,  I 
would  marry  the  woman  my  uncle  had  chosen  for 
me.  But  I  loved  Annie  Dale,  and  I  knew  I  could 
not  marry  any  one  else  while  my  heart  belonged  so 
entirely  to  her.  I  became  so  wretched  and  unhappy 
over  my  situation,  while  at  the  same  time  I  could  not 
make  up  my  mind  to  part  with  my  newly  acquired 
fortune,  that  I  could  not  come  here  to  Vue  de  1'Eau 
to  live,  where  I  should  have  to  meet  her  constantly; 
so  I  had  the  house  closed  and  started  off  on  a  trip 
through  the  West. 

"During  my  wanderings  I  went  to  New  Mexico, 
where  I  heard  the  most  wonderful  stories  regarding 
the  wealth  of  the  Morena  Mines.  A  bright  idea  sud 
denly  came  to  me.  I  would  invest  in  them — I  would 
throw  myself  in  the  business  of  mining  during  the 


23-i  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

next  few  years;  if  what  I  heard  was  true  I  could 
easily  double,  perhaps  treble,  what  money  I  put  into 
them  before  I  should  have  to  give  up  my  fortune 
according  to  the  conditions  of  my  uncle's  will — the 
money  thus  earned  would  be  legitimately  mine.  I 
could  then  make  over  to  my  cousin  my  share  of  Jabez 
Mapleson's  fortune,  and  be  in  a  comfortable  situa 
tion  to  marry  the  girl  I  loved. 

"Inspired  with  enthusiasm  over  this  idea,  I  bought 
largely  in  the  Morena  Mines,  and  then  bent  all  my 
energies  toward  the  one  object  of  my  life.  The  first 
three  years  I  was  very  successful,  and  if  my  luck  con 
tinued,  I  knew  that  by  the  end  of  another  three  I 
might  snap  my  fingers  over  Jabez  Mapleson's  will, 
and  secure  the  wife  of  my  choice.  But  just  at  this 
time  a  terrible  temptation  presented  itself  to  me. 

"Annie  Dale's  mother  had  been  a  widow  for  sev 
eral  years.  Her  husband  was  a  cousin  of  my  uncle's, 
and  when  Mr.  Dale  died,  leaving  his  wife  and  child 
destitute,  Uncle  Jabez  had  given  them  the  use  of  a 
small  cottage  on  his  estate  and  increased  the  small 
annuity,  which  Mrs.  Dale  possessed,  to  a  sum  that 
enabled  them  to  live  comfortably  with  economy. 
Afterward,  when  Annie  grew  older,  they  opened  a 
small  private  school,  and,  having  succeeded  in  secur 
ing  all  the  pupils  they  could  accommodate,  they  de 
clined  receiving  further  aid  from  him.  They  lived 
very  poorly  andmeagerly,  however,  and  it  galled  me 
to  see  their  poverty;  so,  upon  coming  into  possession 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  235 

of  the  estate,  I  took  advantage  of  their  absence  on  a 
visit  at  one  time,  and  had  the  cottage  thoroughly 
repaired  and  newly  furnished  in  a  style  to  suit  my 
self.  Mrs.  Dale  was  almost  inclined  to  be  angry 
with  me  for  this,  saying  it  was  far  too  elegant  for 
their  position  in  life;  but  the  deed  was  done,  and  I 
laughingly  told  her  it  was  only  a  poor  return  for  all 
the  trouble  I  had  given  her  as  a  boy,  when  I  tracked 
her  spotless  floors  with  my  muddy  boots,  and  de 
pleted  her  larder  with  my  rapacious  appetite,  as, 
day  after  day,  I  shared  Annie's  lunch. 

"But  I  am  getting  away  from  the  temptation  of 
which  I  began  telling  you,  which  came  to  me  after  I 
had  been  three  years  in  the  mines.  Annie's  mother 
died  very  suddenly  after  an  illness  of  only  a  week, 
and  I  did  not  learn  of  the  fact  for  nearly  two  months 
afterward.  I  wrote  at  once  to  Annie,  begging  her 
to  choose  some  elderly  companion  and  remain  where 
she  was — to  consider  the  cottage  still  her  home  and 
accept  aid  from  me  until  I  could  return  and  make 
some  permanent  arrangement  for  her.  I  told  my 
self  that  if  I  could  only  keep  her  there  in  seclusion 
for  a  couple  of  years  longer,  I  should  then  be  in  a 
position  to  return  and  ask  her  to  become  my  wife. 
But  in  a  cool,  dignified  letter  she  refused  my  re 
quest,  telling  me  that  her  plans  for  the  future  were 
already  made,  and  that  she  was  on  the  eve  of  leaving 
for  Richmond,  where  she  was  going  to  remain  with 


236  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

an  old  nurse,  until  she  could  obtain  a  position  as 
governess  in  some  family. 

"For  a  week  after  receiving  this  letter  I  fought  a 
terrible  battle  with  myself.  I  could  not  endure  the 
thought  of  that  delicate  girl  going  out  in  the  world 
to  toil  for  the  bread  she  ate.  On  the  other  hand,  if  I 
yielded  to  my  own  desire,  and  asked  her  to  marry  me, 
it  would  doom  her  to  a  life  of  hardship  almost  as 
severe,  for  I  could  only  make  over  my  share  of 
Uncle  Jabez's  fortune  to  my  cousin  at  a  sacrifice  that 
would  leave  me  almost  a  beggar.  I  could  not  force 
a  sale  of  mining  interests  without  losing  nearly  all 
that  I  had  made  during  the  last  three  years.  I  was 
nearly  distracted,  and  I  imagined  a  thousand  evils 
and  dangers  that  might  result  from  Annie  becoming 
a  governess.  Not  only  would  such  a  life  be  a  bur 
densome  and  disagreeable  one,  but,  worse  than  that, 
she  was  liable  to  meet  some  one  who  would  be  at 
tracted  by  her  beauty  and  sweetness — some  one  who 
would  win  her,  and  thus  I  should  lose  her. 

"The  thought  was  unbearable,  and  I  resolved  upon 
a  desperate  measure.  I  wrote  again  to  her,  confess 
ing  my  love — that  I  had  always  loved  her,  and  beg 
ging  her  to  come  to  me  and  share  my  life  in  the 
West.  I  told  her  that  I  would  gladly  give  up  for 
tune — everything — if  she  would  become  my  wife; 
and  I  meant  to,  by  Another  year,  or  as  soon  as  I 
could  sell  to  advantage.  I  told  her,  also,  that  I  could 
not  come  on  for  her,  as  my  interests  at  the  mines 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  237, 

would  not  admit  of  my  being  absent  long  enough  for 
that,  but  I  would  meet  her  at  Kansas  City,  Missouri, 
where  we  would  be  immediately  married,  and  then 
proceed  to  our  simple  home  among  the  mountains 
of  New  Mexico.  I  begged  her  not  to  say  anything 
to  any  one  about  where  she  was  going  until  after  our 
marriage,  when  I  preferred  to  announce  the  fact  my 
self.  I  sent  her  a  route  carefully  mapped  out,  and  a 
check  ample  for  all  her  needs,  begging  her  to  tele 
graph  me  the  day  and  the  hour  that  she  would  start. 
You  have  the  telegram  she  sent  in  reply  there," 
Colonel  Mapleson  said,  turning  to  Geoffrey,  and 
glancing  at  the  package  which  still  lay  on  the  table 
beside  him. 

"I  have  always  kept  that  precious  bit  of  paper," 
he  resumed,  "for  its  contents  made  me  almost  wild 
with  joy  when  I  received  it.  I  set  out  immediately 
to  join  my  dear  one,  reaching  Kansas  City  only  a  few 
hours  previous  to  her  own  arrival.  I  had  everything 
arranged,  however,  and  we  drove  directly  from  the 
station  to  the  house  of  a  prominent  clergyman  of  the 
city,  where  we  were  married  in  the  presence  of  his 
household,  and  three  hours  later  we  were  on  our  way 
to  New  Mexico. 

"But  I  knew  it  would  never  do  for  me  to  take  my 
wife  to  the  Morena  Mines,  where  I  was  known  by 
men  who  were  also  from  the  South,  and  through 
whom  the  knowledge  of  my  marriage  would  soon 
travel  back  to  Virginia.  Only  a  short  time  previous 


238  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

I  had  bought  out  a  man  in  another  district,  getting 
his  claim  for  a  mere  song,  and  not  a  soul  in  the  place 
knew  me.  I  resolved  to  take  Annie  there,  make 
just  as  pretty  and  comfortable  a  home  as  I  could 
for  her,  call  myself  William  Dale,  going  back  and 
forth  from  one  mine  to  the  other,  as  my  business  de 
manded  it,  until  I  was  satisfied  to  sell  out  altogether 
and  return  to  Virginia,  proclaim  my  marriage, 
and  give  Miss  Everet  the  other  half  of  her  fortune. 
But  when  I  confessed  this  to  Annie,  as  of  course  I 
had  to  do  in  order  to  assume  her  name,  she  was  very 
unhappy.  She  was  not  lacking  in  spirit,  either,  and 
made  me  almost  despise  myself  for  the  part  I  had 
played. 

"  'I  would  never  have  come  to  you  if  I  had  known 
this,'  she  said.  'I  hate  deception  and  double-dealing 
of  whatever  nature.  You  might  have  told  me  frankly 
how  you  were  situated,  and  I  would  have  waited  and 
been  faithful  to  you  until  you  could  have  openly  made 
me  your  wife.' 

"  'But  you  would  not  have  allowed  me  to  take  care 
of  you,'  I  replied. 

"  'No,'  she  answered,  flushing;  'my  pride  would 
not  have  yielded  to  that,  but  I  could  have  done  very 
well  for  myself  for  a  while,  and  waited  patiently 
until  it  was  right  that  we  should  be  married.' 

"I  had  a  hard  task  to  pacify  her.  She  was  deter 
mined  at  first  that  the  whole  truth  should  be  con 
fessed,  saying  she  would  not  occupy  a  false  position. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  239 

But  when  I  told  her  that  it  would  ruin  me  to  force 
a  sale  of  my  stock;  that  I  should  lose  all  the  hard 
labor  of  the  three  years  that  I  had  spent  there,  and 
not  even  then  be  able  to  replace  the  money  from 
Uncle  Jabez's  fortune  which  I  had  invested,  she  be 
came  more  reasonable.  I  promised  that  if  she  would 
try  and  be  patient  and  happy  for  a  year,  I  would 
replace  every  dollar  that  was  not  my  own,  and  have 
something  handsome  besides,  as  a  capital  for  myself. 
"I  honestly  meant  to  do  all  this,  for  I  knew  that  I 
should  never  thoroughly  regain  the  respect  of  my 
wife  until  I  had  redeemed  my  position  and  hers  be 
fore  the  world." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  COLONEL'S  STORY  CONCLUDED 

"ANNIE  and  I  were  very  happy,"  Colonel  Maple- 
son  went  on,  after  a  momentary  pause,  "during  the 
year  that  followed — happy  in  spite  of  a  little  cloud 
that  had  arisen  so  soon  after  our  marriage,  for  our 
prospects  were  very  encouraging.  I  was  doing 
finely.  Every  month  my  profits  were  increasing,  and 
thus  the  time  of  our  emancipation  was  growing 
nearer.  If  I  could  only  replace  what  now  no  longer 
properly  belonged  to  me,  Annie  said  she  would  be 
content  to  remain  in  that  mining  country  as  long  as  I 
desired.  She  was  willing  to  live  simply,  even  fru 
gally,  if  I  would  only  do  right,  acknowledge  our  mar 
riage  before  the  world,  and  not  have  to  hide  like 
a  couple  of  criminals. 

"Our  joy  was  increased  tenfold  when,  a  little  be 
fore  our  first  anniversary,  a  bright,  handsome  boy 
was  born  to  us." 

Again  Mrs.  Mapleson  started  and  shot  another 
glance  at  Geoffrey. 

"That  explains  it  all,"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,  Estelle,"  replied  her  husband,  who  caught 
240 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  241 

the  words,  "that  explains  why  this  young  man  resem 
bles  Everet  to  such  a  wonderful  degree.  They  are 
both  thorough  Maplesons.  My  wife,"  he  continued, 
a  sudden  pallor  settling  over  his  face,  and  speaking 
now  with  visible  effort,  "began  to  recuperate  almost 
immediately  after  his  birth,  her  color  and  strength 
returned,  her  spirits  seemed  as  light  as  air,  and  she 
was  as  happy  as  the  day  was  long,  in  the  possession 
of  her  new  treasure,  while  she  was  the  most  devoted 
little  mother  imaginable.  She  named  her  baby  her 
self.  'Geoffrey  Dale  Mapleson,'  she  said  he  was  to 
be  called,  'only  we  shall  have  to  drop  the  Mapleson 
for  a  while,  I  suppose — only  a  little  while  longer, 
Will,'  she  pleaded,  as  she  twined  her  arms  about  my 
neck  and  drew  my  head  down  close  to  the  little  one 
lying  beside  her. 

"  'My  darling,'  I  told  her,  'in  six  months,  at  the 
farthest,  you  shall  go  back  home  as  Mrs.  William 
Mapleson.  We  will  call  it  our  real  wedding  jour 
ney.  Estelle  shall  have  her  money,  then  we  will 
come  back  here  for  a  few  years  longer,  after  which, 
if  all  continues  to  go  well,  we  shall  have  no  cause  to 
regret  Jabez  Mapleson's  fortune.' 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  look  of  joy  on  her  face 
when  I  made  that  promise,  and  all  during  the  even 
ing  she  was  as  gay  as  a  child,  and  more  lovely  than 
I  had  ever  seen  her.  The  next  morning  I  was 
obliged  to  leave  her  for  a  couple  of  days.  I  had  to 
go  to  the  other  mines,  then  to  Santa  Fe  to  make  a 


242  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

deposit.  My  darling  clung  to  me  as  I  bade  her  good- 
by.  Our  boy  was  just  two  days  old  then. 

"  'My  Will,  my  Will,  somehow  I  cannot  bear  to 
let  you  go  this  time,  even  for  a  day,  and  two  will 
seem  an  age !'  she  said,  as  she  kissed  me  again  and 
again.  Then  she  laughed  at  her  own  childishness, 
told  me  playfully,  though  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  to 
begone  before  she  repeated  her  folly." 

A  groan  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  narrator  at 
this  point,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  not  be  able 
to  go  on. 

Mr.  Huntress  and  Goffrey  both  shifted  their  posi 
tion,  for  they  could  not  bear  to  look  upon  his  ago 
nized  face  as  he  thus  laid  bare  this  sacred  page  of 
his  heart. 

Mrs.  Mapleson  buried  her  face  in  her  handker 
chief,  while  every  now  and  then  a  shudder  ran 
through  her  frame. 

"She  never  kissed  me  again;  she  never  called  her 
'Will'  again;  she  never  knew  me  again,"  Colonel 
Mapleson  went  on,  in  a  hollow  tone,  "for  she  took  a 
cold  that  very  day  and  was  raving  with  delirium 
when  I  returned.  She  grew  worse  and  worse,  and 
in  two  weeks  was — dead.  My  bright,  beautiful  wife, 
whom  I  loved  better  than  my  own  life,  for  whom  I 
was  willing  to  give  up  fortune,  position,  everything 
that  I  had  hitherto  held  most  dear,  lay  a  lifeless 
thing  of  clay — gone  from  me  like  a  breath,  leaving 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  243 

me  broken-hearted  and  with  my  reason  nearly  de 
throned." 

It  was  truly  pitiable  to  witness  the  man's  emotion 
and  his  struggle  for  self-control. 

His  frame  shook  like  a  tree  swayed  by  the  wind; 
his  lips  and  his  voice  trembled  so  that  it  was  difficult 
for  him  to  articulate,  while  his  broad  chest  heaved 
convulsively  with  the  anguished  throbbing  of  his 
heart. 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  UI  must  not  dwell 
upon  that  sad  time,  and  I  scarcely  know  how  I 
lived  during  the  week  that  followed.  We  buried 
her  in  a  quiet  spot  beneath  a  mammoth  tree,  not  a 
stone's  throw  from  our  home,  where  she  used  often 
to  sit  on  a  warm  summer's  day  with  some  dainty  bit 
of  work  in  her  hands.  You  have  seen  her  grave,  you 
say,"  he  interposed,  turning  to  Geoffrey.  "Does  it 
look  sadly  neglected  and  overgrown?  Is  the  stone 
defaced  or  the  name  obliterated  by  the  storms  of 
so  many  years?" 

"No,  sir,"  his  son  answered,  looking  up  with  moist 
eyes,  for  he  had  been  deeply  moved  by  his  father's 
story  and  his  evident  suffering  in  telling  it;  "the 
fence  that  surrounds  the  little  lot  has  fallen  some 
what  to  decay,  but  a  luxuriant  growth  of  vines  hides 
all  that.  The  stone  still  stands  upright  in  its  place, 
and  the  name  'Annie'  is  as  distinct  to-day  as  it  ever 
was." 

"I  have  never  been  there  since  we  broke  up  our 


244-  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

home,"  resumed  the  colonel,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 
"The  girl,  Margaret,  who  had  served  my  wife  most 
faithfully  ever  since  our  marriage,  married,  as  you 
know  already,  a  man  by  the  name  of  Henly.  They 
were  going  to  California  to  live,  and  she  said  she 
would  take  care  of  my  boy  until  I  could  make  some 
better  provision  for  him.  I  knew  not  what  else  I 
could  do,  so  I  accepted  her  offer.  I  broke  up  my 
home,  gave  away  what  I  could  not  sell  of  the  furni 
ture,  and  we  left  the  place,  the  Henlys  taking  you, 
Geoffrey,  to  California,  where  I  planned  to  visit  you 
when  I  could.  I  returned  to  my  interests  in  the  other 
mines  where  I  tried  to  drown  my  grief  by  working 
as  a  common  miner.  But  time,  instead  of  healing  my 
wound,  only  made  it  rankle  worse.  I  grew  bitter 
and  antagonistic;  the  happiness  of  others  maddened 
me;  the  fortune  I  had  before  been  so  willing  to  re 
lease,  for  the  sake  of  her  I  loved,  I  now  vowed  I 
would  keep  out  of  spite  for  my  loss.  I  resolved  to 
keep  my  marriage  a  secret.  I  would  keep  all  my 
wealth,  and  as  my  boy  grew  older  he  should  have  the 
benefit  of  it,  even  though  I  should  never  be  able  to 
acknowledge  him  as  mine.  But  I  was  restless,  I  could 
not  remain  long  in  one  place  at  a  time,  and  I  wan 
dered  from  place  to  place  trying  to  drown  my  sorrow 
in  excitement.  Four  times,  after  an  interval  of  six 
months  between  each,  I  visited  the  Henlys.  My 
child  was  growing  finely  and  doing  well  every  way, 
so  I  decided  to  let  him  remain  where  he  was  until  he 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  245 

should  be  old  enough  to  go  to  school;  then  something 
impelled  me  to  come  back  to  my  home.  I  put  my 
affairs  into  the  hands  of  an  agent,  and  six  years  from 
the  time  of  my  leaving  Vue  de  1'Eau  found  me  here 
again  once  more  assuming  the  duties  of  its  master. 
A  few  weeks  later  I  met  my  cousin,  Miss  Everet. 
Estelle,"  with  a  glance  toward  his  wife,  "do  you 
mind  my  telling  it  all?" 

"No,"  was  the  brief,  low  response. 

"She  appeared  very  glad  to  renew  the  acquaint 
ance  of  former  years,  although  no  allusion  to  our 
uncle's  will  was  at  that  time  made  by  either  of  us. 

"She  had  grown  very  beautiful,  had  been  much  in 
society,  and  possessed  charming  manners.  One  day, 
during  a  call  upon  her,  she  playfully  remarked  that 
it  was  her  birthday  and  she  had  not  been  the  recipi 
ent  of  a  single  gift. 

'You  should  have  mentioned  that  fact  before,'  I 
returned,  'but  perhaps  it  is  not  too  late  even  yet,  for 
some  remembrance  of  the  day.  Tell  the  number  of 
your  years  and  you  shall  have  a  rose  for  every  one.' 

"I  knew  well  enough,  but  I  would  not  appear  to 
know. 

'Twenty-four,'  she  replied,  and  her  face  clouded 
as  she  said  it. 

"I  could  tell  well  enough  what  she  was  thinking  of; 
in  one  year  more  she  would  be  twenty-five,  then  Rob 
ert  Dale  could  claim  her  fortune,  and  a  life  of  pov 
erty  would  lie  before  her. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"Instantly  the  thought  arose  in  my  mind,  'Why 
has  my  cous"in  never  married?'  I  did  not  believe  that 
she  had  remained  single  out  of  any  regard  for  me, 
or  from  any  desire  to  fulfil  the  conditions  of  our 
uncle's  will;  indeed,  she  had  expressed  herself  so 
indignantly  at  the  time  of  its  reading,  that  I  imag 
ined  she  would  always  be  adverse  to  any  such  union. 
Still,  it  seemed  strange  that  a  young  lady  so  attract 
ive,  and  eligible  in  every  way,  should  have  remained 
single,  when  I  did  not  doubt,  indeed  I  knew,  she 
might  have  chosen  from  among  a  half-dozen  men 
whose  fortunes  were  even  larger  than  her  own. 

"  'Perhaps,'  I  thought,  'she  has  become  bitter  and 
antagonistic — is  bound  to  enjoy  her  money  until  the 
last  moment,  and  then  pass  it  over  to  me.'  I  did  not 
want  it — the  thought  was  very  disagreeable  to  me. 
Perhaps  she  loved  a  poor  man,  and  was  intending  to 
make  the  most  of  her  time;  perhaps,  I  reasoned,  she 
has  been  saving  her  income  all  these  years,  and  will 
marry  when  her  twenty-five  years  are  past;  maybe 
she  is  even  waiting  to  tire  me  out  and  get  the  whole 
for  that  purpose.  But  there  appeared  to  be  no  one 
of  whom  she  was  fond.  I  noticed  that  she  treated 
all  gentlemen  alike,  even  receiving  my  visits  and  at 
tentions  with  no  more  pleasure  than  those  of  others. 
'Why  not  marry  her  if  she  will  have  you  ?'  was 
the  thought  that  shot  through  my  mind,  as  I  started 
out  to  get  the  roses  I  had  promised  her.  'I  will  not 
give  up  my  fortune  to  that  miser  without  a  struggle. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  247 

I  might  ask  her  to  be  my  wife,  and  then,  If  she  re 
fuses,  I  have  fulfilled  the  conditions  of  my  uncle's 
will.'  But,  at  first,  a  feeling  of  horror  came  over  me, 
at  the  thought  of  giving  to  another  the  place  which 
my  Annie  had  filled,  and  I  angrily  repudiated  it.  I 
avoided  my  cousin's  society  for  a  time  after  that, 
almost  hating  myself  for  contemplating  for  a  mo 
ment  a  marriage  with  her  for  mercenary  reasons. 
But  when  she  chided  me  gently  for  my  neglect,  seem 
ing  to  feel  actual  pain  on  account  of  it,  those  ques 
tions  returned  to  me  with  even  greater  force  than 
before,  and  I  resolved  to  try  to  learn  her  mind  upon 
the  subject. 

"I  knew  that  I  should  lead  a  wretched  existence 
in  this  great  house,  with  no  woman  to  brighten  it  with 
her  presence,  and,  perhaps,  after  a  time,  if  she  should 
consent,  I  might  confess  the  great  temptation  and 
sorrow  that  had  come  to  me,  and  perhaps  she  would 
pardon  it,  and  be  willing  to  receive  my  boy  and  give 
him  a  mother's  care.  As  soon  as  I  reached  this  con 
clusion,  I  made  no  delay  about  putting  my  fate  to  the 
test. 

"We  were  one  day  talking  about  my  estate  here, 
a*hd  of  some  improvements  I  was  intending  to  make, 
when  I  suddenly  said: 

;  'Estelle,  Vue  de  1'Eau  has  no  mistress.  I  wonder 
if  you  could  regard  the  conditions  of  Uncle  Jabez's 
will  any  more  favorably  now  than  you  did  at  the  time 
of  his  death?' 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"She  flushed  hotly,  and  shot  a  quick,  keen  glance 
at  me. 

1  'I  believe  we  were  mutually  antagonistic  to  it,' 
she  replied. 

'  'People  grow  wiser  as  they  grow  older,'  I  re 
marked;  then  boldly  asked:  'Will  you  marry  me 
now,  Estelle?' 

'  'Do  you  think  it  right  for  people  who  do  not 
love  each  other  to  marry?'  she  questioned. 

"  'Is  that  equivalent  to  telling  me  that  you  do  not 
love  me?'  I  inquired.  'I  will  be  frank  with  you,  my 
cousin,'  I  continued.  'I  confess  that  I  have  not  the 
affection  for  you  that  young  lovers  generally  rave 
about;  but  I  admire  you;  you  are  beautiful,  cultured, 
talented,  and  I  am  free  to  own  that  you  are  far  more 
attractive  to  me  now  then  you  were  in  those  old  days 
when  we  were  both  so  bitter  and  indignant.  If  no 
one  else  has  won  your  heart,  I  will  do  my  best  to 
make  your  future  pleasant.  We  have  only  one  more 
year  of  grace;  we  must  consider  this  subject  and 
reach  some  decision  before  it  expires;  so  what  say 
you,  cousin  mine?' 

"She  thought  a  moment,  then  lifted  her  head  with 
a  resolute  air,  and  said: 

"  'Yes,  I  will  marry  you,  William,  if  you  are  will 
ing  to  take  me  just  as  I  am,  without  very  much  heart 
to  give  you,  but  willing  to  do  my  best  to  make  you  a 
good  wife;  I  believe  it  will  be  the  wiser  course  for 
both  of  us.' 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  249 

"Thus  our  engagement  was  made,  and  we  were 
married  the  following  month.  I  have  endeavored  to 
keep  my  promise  to  my  wife  to  make  her  life  a  pleas 
ant  one,  and  until  now,"  with  a  sorrowful  glance  at 
the  bowed  head  and  shivering  form  of  his  proud 
wife,  "I  believe  that  we  have  been  comparatively 
happy  in  our  domestic  relations;  at  least,  I  have 
known  more  of  quiet  content  than  I  thought  it  would 
ever  be  possible  for  me  to  attain.  I  have  kept  this 
secret — the  only  one  I  ever  kept  from  her — until  this 
hour.  I  did  not  have  the  courage  to  confess  it  after 
our  marriage — I  kept  putting  it  off  until  after  my 
son,  Everet,  was  born,  a  little  less  than  a  year  after 
our  marriage,  and  when  I  saw  how  my  wife's  heart 
was  bound  up  in  him,  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  it. 

"Later,  when  I  went  to  see  how  my  boy  was  thriv 
ing,  intending  to  make  some  other  provision  for  him, 
when  I  learned  of  that  tragedy  in  the  Henly  family 
and  that  both  the  man  and  boy  had  disappeared,  I 
was  almost  glad  I  never  had  spoken  of  that  sad 
episode  in  my  life,  although  I  spared  no  expense  to 
try  to  trace  my  child. 

"Estelle,  this  is  my  confession;  you  have  heard  the 
whole,  and  know  the  extent  of  my  deception.  So 
many  years  had  passed  that  I  had  grown  to  believe 
that  it  would  never  be  unvailed  until  that  day  when 
all  secrets  are  to  be  made  known.  This  young  man, 
whom  I  introduced  to  you  as  Mr.  Huntress'  son,  is 
my  son,  whom  I  believed  lost  to  me  forever;  but  he 


250  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

was  led,  most  strangely  led,  to  the  discovery  of  his 
parentage,  and  came  hither  to-night  to  claim  ac 
knowledgment  By  the  way,  Geoffrey,  I  never  knew 
either  when  or  how  I  lost  that  portion  of  the  knight- 
templar's  cross  you  found.  I  missed  it  shortly  after 
my  last  visit  to  Santa  Fe,  but  never  expected  to  re 
cover  it  again.  You  shall  keep  it,  my  boy;  it  has 
always  been  regarded  as  a  pocket-piece  for  luck;  may 
it  ever  prove  to  be  such  to  you.  My  only  reason  for 
having  the  Henlys'  letters  simply  directed  to  'Lock 
Box  43'  was  to  prevent  my  identity  being  discovered. 
I  could  not  give  them  my  real  name,  and  did  not  like 
letters  addressed  to  William  Dale  to  come  to  the 
same  box,  so  I  just  gave  the  number. 

"About  my  visit  to  Saratoga  last  summer,"  the 
colonel  continued,  after  a  short  pause,  "I  have  to 
confess  to  something  that  I  never  experienced  before, 
either  in  times  of  peace  or  war,  a  feeling  of  cow 
ardice.  I  was  on  my  way  to  Newport  to  join  Mrs. 
Mapleson,  and  took  a  notion  to  run  up  to  the  Springs, 
which  I  had  not  visited  for  years.  On  the  train  from 
Albany  to  Saratoga  an  elderly  gentleman  accosted 
me,  expressing  great  pleasure  at  meeting  me  once 
more,  and  inquired  most  kindly  after  my  wife.  He 
was  a  man  whom  I  had  known  during  that  short 
happy  year  that  I  had  spent  in  that  mining  village, 
and  who  had  known  me  only  as  Captain  William 
Dale.  He,  too,  was  going  to  Saratoga,  and  begged 
the  privilege  of  accompanying  me  to  the  hotel  where 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  251 

I  intended  stopping.  At  first  I  hardly  knew  what  to 
do.  I  could  not  bear  to  undeceive  him  regarding 
my  name,  for  it  would  have  required  explanations 
too  painful  to  make  to  a  stranger,  so  I  finally  thought 
it  would  not  matter  if  I  registered  for  once  in  my 
assumed  name;  therefore  I  wrote  it  and  named  my 
place  of  residence  as  Santa  Fe,  since  he  knew  that  I 
used  to  do  business  there.  A  strange  fate  I  thought 
it,  which  threw  you  in  my  way  under  just  those  cir 
cumstances.  You  remember  how  I  took  you  for 
Everet,  at  first;  but  I  was  terribly  shocked  when  it 
dawned  upon  me  who  you  were,  and  I  fully  intended, 
at  the  time,  to  keep  my  appointment  with  you  for 
that  afternoon.  But  when  I  came  to  think  it  all  over 
quietly,  to  realize  all  the  revelations  that  must  be 
made  to  my  wife,  my  son,  to  yourself,  I  was  nearly 
crazed;  I  knew  from  your  appearance  that  you  had 
been  well  cared  for,  that  life  was  bright  and  prosper 
ous  with  you,  and  it  seemed  as  if  I  could  not  rake 
over  all  the  past,  and  in  the  midst  of  my  frenzy  I 
packed  my  valise  and  left  on  the  noon  train.  I  have 
bitterly  regretted  it  since,  for  my  heart  longed  after 
its  own;  I  have  been  ashamed  that  I,  a  Mapleson, 
should  have  turned  my  back  and  fled  from  any  cir 
cumstances.  I  have  repented  of  my  folly,  too,  be 
cause  a  duty  has  fallen  upon  me,  since  then,  which 
made  it  imperative  that  I  should  find  you;  but  of 
this  I  will  speak  later. 

"What  is  it,  Estelle?"  he  asked,  as  a  heavy,  shud- 


252  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

dering  sigh  from  his  wife  smote  his  ear;  "has  my 
story  been  too  much  for  you?  I  fear  it  has.  Per 
haps  I  have  been  selfish  and  thoughtless  in  bringing 
you  here  before  strangers  to  listen  to  all  this,  but  it 
had  to  be  told,  and  this  interview  must  have  taken 
place  between  us  all.  Forgive  me  for  wounding  you, 
and  let  me  take  you  to  your  room;  perhaps,  though, 
you  never  will  forgive  me  for  the  deception  which  I 
have  practiced  upon  you." 

He  went  up  to  her  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder  with  more  of  tenderness  than  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  manifesting  toward  the  proud,  handsome 
woman.  But  she  put  him  from  her  with  a  passionate 
gesture,  in  which,  however,  there  was  a  pathetic  air 
of  appeal. 

She  arose  and  stood  before  him,  her  face  almost 
convulsed  with  agony. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands,  "if  you  had 
only  told  me  all  this  when  you  asked  me  to  marry 
you;  or,  if  I  had  been  true  to  my  womanhood,  how 
much  we  both  might  have  saved  each  other!  For 
give  you  for  your  deception?  Oh!  William,  I  have 
been  tenfold  more  guilty  than  you." 


CHAPTER  XX 

MRS.  MAPLESON'S  CONFESSION 

COLONEL  MAPLESON  regarded  his  wife  as  if  he 
thought  she  had  suddenly  taken  leave  of  her  senses. 

August  Huntress'  heart  was  stirred  with  compas 
sion  for  the  beautiful  and  imperious  woman,  for  he 
realized  full  well  the  trial  that  lay  before  her,  and 
could  understand  how  humiliating  it  must  be  to  have 
her  sin  find  her  out  at  this  late  day,  when  she  had  be 
lieved  it  buried  forever. 

All  these  long  years  she,  too,  had  treasured  her 
secret,  believing  that  no  one  save  the  strange  physi 
cian  who  had  attended  her  at  the  birth  of  her  child, 
and  those  two  who  had  adopted  it,  knew  anything  of 
that  episode  in  her  life,  and  that  she  had  so  success 
fully  concealed  her  identity  at  the  time  that  it  could 
never  be  discovered. 

"What  can  you  mean,  Estelle?"  demanded  Colo 
nel  Mapleson,  as  soon  as  he  could  collect  himself 
sufficiently  to  speak. 

Then,  as  he  remembered  how  she  had  greeted 
Mr.  Huntress,  how  overcome  she  had  been  at  sight 
of  him,  he  glanced  sharply  toward  him  and  knew 

253 


254  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

instantly,  from  the  look  of  sympathy  on  his  face, 
that  he  must  be  in  some  way  associated  with  that 
mysterious  deception  of  which  his  wife  had  spoken. 

"I  mean,"  the  wretched  woman  returned,  in  a 
voice  of  despair,  while  she  sank  weakly  back  into  her 
chair,  "that  the  secret  which  you  have  kept  concealed 
from  me  during  all  our  married  life  cannot  compare 
with  what  I  have  withheld  from  you ;  you  simply  hid 
the  fact  of  an  earlier  marriage  and  the  existence  of 
a  son,  while  I  committed  a  monstrous  crime  to  con 
ceal  a  like  secret  from  you." 

"Good  heavens,  Estelle !"  cried  her  husband, 
starting  back  from  her  with  a  look  of  horror  at  her 
appalling  statement.  "I  cannot  believe  it,"  and  he, 
too,  sank  into  the  nearest  chair,  overcome  with  con 
sternation,  and  actually  trembling  with  dread  of  what 
was  to  follow. 

Again  he  looked  suspiciously  at  August  Huntress, 
while  a  hundred  thoughts  flashed  through  his  brain. 

He  fully  believed  that  he  must  have  been  con 
nected  in  some  way  with  the  crime  of  which  his  wife 
spoke. 

Had  she  married  him  clandestinely,  during  those 
early  years  while  he  had  been  away  in  the  mines  of 
New  Mexico,  and  then  deserted  him  to  wed  the  other 
half  of  Jabez  Mapleson's  fortune  and  preserve  her 
own?  Had  they  met  and  loved  each  other  in  their 
youth  ?  Was  that  the  reason  why  Estelle  had  been  so 
indifferent  to  all  other  suitors;  why  she  had  told  him 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  255 

she  had  "not  much  heart  to  give  him,"  when  he  had 
asked  her  to  marry  him?  She  had  called  him 
"August  Damon"  when  brought  face  to  face  with 
him,  in  a  tone  which  betrayed  that  she  had  everything 
to  fear  from  his  presence  there,  and  she  confirmed 
this  by  fainting  at  his  feet. 

But  there  were  only  sorrow  and  compassion 
written  on  Mr.  Huntress'  face  as  he  witnessed  the 
proud  woman's  humiliation;  there  was  no  vestige  of 
any  latent  affection,  no  anger  or  harshness,  such  as 
there  would  have  been  if  she  had  wronged  him  or 
played  him  false;  there  was  no  look,  save  one  of  re 
gret  and  sympathy,  as  for  one  who,  he  knew,  had 
committed  some  great  sin  that  had  at  last  found  her 
out  and  must  be  atoned  for. 

"What  does  she  mean?  Do  you  know?"  Colonel 
Mapleson  asked,  huskily,  as  his  visitor — perchance 
feeling  the  magnetism  of  his  glance — turned  his  eyes 
from  the  bowed  form  of  Mrs.  Mapleson  to  the  mys 
tified  husband. 

"I — know  something,  but  not  all,"  he  answered, 
reluctantly. 

"Then  you  have  met  my  wife  before?" 

"Once,  and  only  once,  as  I  have  already  told  you." 

"Where — under  what  circumstances?"  demanded 
the  colonel,  with  considerable  excitement. 

"Pardon  me,"  returned  Mr.  Huntress,  with  dig 
nity,  as  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  what  his  host's 
suspicions  might  be.  "I  prefer  that  Mrs.  Mapleson 


256  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

should  herself  tell  you  that,  since  it  is  more  her  secret 
than  mine.  Perhaps,  however,  it  would  be  better 
for  Geoffrey  and  me  to  retire  to  some  other  room 
while  she  speaks  with  you  alone,"  and  he  half  arose 
as  he  spoke. 

But  Mrs.  Mapleson  threw  out  one  clenched,  jew 
eled  hand,  with  an  imperative  gesture,  to  check  him. 

"No,"  she  cried,  a  quiver  of  agony  in  her  voice; 
"if  any  one  has  a  right  to  hear  my  confession,  my 
story,  you  have;"  and  at  this  Geoffrey  turned  a  star 
tled  face  upon  the  man  whom  he  had  always  re 
garded  as  honorable  and  irreproachable — one  of 
nature's  noblemen. 

"Oh,  the  curse  of  gold !"  the  unhappy  woman  went 
on,  wildly.  "What  will  it  not  tempt  one  to  do?  The 
love  of  it  blunts"  natural  affection  and  honor,  and 
warps  the  reason.  It  leads  one  to  deceive,  to  scheme, 
and  to  sin  for  the  possession  of  it.  What  blind  fools 
men  and  women  are  to  sacrifice  so  much — love,  a  life 
time  of  innocence,  purity,  and  happiness,  for  the  sake 
of  a  little  paltry  yellow  dust !  If  I  could  but  live  over 
my  life,  how  gladly  would  I  endure  poverty,  and  toil, 
and  self-denial,  to  secure  a  quiet  conscience  and  a 
heart  free  from  its  burden  of  sin  and  dread!  Oh, 
such  a  life  as  I  have  led  is  but  a  miserable  failure 
from  beginning  to  end!" 

Colonel  Mapleson  began  to  be  alarmed  at  his 
wife's  increasing  excitement,  while  her  remorse  and 
her  ominous  allusions  drove  him  almost  distracted. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  257 

He  arose,  and,  going  to  her  side,  took  her  trem 
bling  hands  in  his,  saying: 

"Estelle,  if  you  cannot  calm  yourself,  I  shall  insist 
upon  your  going  to  your  room;  you  will  surely  be  ill 
if  you  yield  so  to  nervous  excitement.  Whatever 
this  matter  is  that  seems  to  weigh  so  heavily  upon 
your  mind,  I  can  wait  until  you  are  in  a  better  state 
for  its  recital.  Come,  let  me  take  you  upstairs,"  and 
he  gently  tried  to  force  her  to  retire. 

But  she  wrenched  her  hands  from  his  clasp. 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  with  a  shiver;  "I  will  not 
carry  this  dreadful  burden  on  my  heart  another  hour ! 
For  more  than  twenty  years  I  have  borne  the  brand 
of  an  inhuman  monster  on  my  soul,  and  I  wonder 
that  it  has  not  transformed  me  into  something  so 
repulsive  and  loathsome  that  every  one  would  shrink 
from  me  in  fear  and  disgust.  I  have  often  looked  at 
myself  with  amazement  to  think  it  was  possible  for 
any  one  to  conceal  so  effectually  the  corruption  and 
wretchedness  and  duplicity  of  one's  nature.  I  believe 
I  have  realized,  as  no  one  else  ever  did,  what  the 
Saviour  meant  by  a  'whited  sepulcher  full  of  dead 
men's  bones.'  William!"  turning  upon  her  husband, 
with  a  wild,  glittering  eye,  and  searching  his  face 
with  a  glance  of  pitiful  appeal,  "I  expect  that  you  will 
despise  and  hate  me,  that  our  son  will  loathe  me, 
when  you  learn  what  I  have  to  tell  you." 

The  scene  was  becoming  very  painful,  and  Mr. 
Huntress,  pitying  her  from  the  depths  of  his  heart, 


V258  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

arose  and  walked  out  of  her  sight,  feeling  that  he 
could  not  look  upon  her  agony,  while  Geoffrey  sat 
spellbound,  dreading  the  impending  disclosure  more 
.than  he  could  express. 

Colonel  Mapleson,  feeling  as  if  he  must  do  some 
thing  to  calm  her  excitement,  went  to  a  closet,  poured 
out  a  glass  of  wine,  and  brought  it  to  her. 

"Estelle,  drink  this,"  he  said,  kindly,  as  he  put  it 
to  her  lips,  though  his  hand  shook  so  that  he  could 
not  hold  the  glass  steadily. 

She  hastily  swallowed  it,  and  then  pushed  him 
from  her;  it  seemed  as  if  she  could  not  bear  him  near 
her  while  her  sin  was  unconfessed — until  he  should 
hear  and  judge  her,  and  she  could  know  what  her 
doom  was  to  be. 

For  more  than  twenty  years  he  had  been  her  hus 
band.  He  had  always  been  kind  and  chivalrous  in 
his  treatment  of  her.  At  first  she  had  been  proud 
of  him  for  his  honor  and  manliness,  then  her  pride 
had  gradually  developed  into  a  strong,  deep  affec 
tion,  which,  however,  she  had  never  allowed  herself 
'to  parade  before  him,  because  of  his  unvarying  reti- 
'cence  toward  her.  She  had  tried  to  be  a  good  wife 
to  him,  to  win  his  respect  by  her  faithfulness  to  duty, 
her  devotion  as  a  mother,  and  his  admiration  by 
preserving  her  beauty  and  shining  a  star  in  the  so 
ciety  they  frequented;  and  now,  after  succeeding  for 
so  long  a  time,  it  drove  her  nearly  crazy  to  think 
that  perhaps  the  confession  of  her  early  folly  would 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

undo  all  this  and  breed  contempt  for  her,  or  worse 

his  pity. 

His  own  deception  seemed  very  trivial  compared" 
with  hers,  for  a  cruel  fate  alone  had  prevented  him- 
from  acknowledging  his  wife  and  child  whom  he  had: 
fondly  loved  and  would  have  cherished  as  long  as. 
they  had  been  spared  to  him,  while  she  had  delib 
erately  planned  to  abandon  her  delicate  babe  and! 
cast  it  unloved  upon  the  care  of  strangers. 

The  wine  which  she  had  drank,  however,  served 
to  steady  her  nerves,  and  to  give  her  strength  for 
the  trial  before  her,  and  after  a  few  minutes  she. 
raised  her  white,  drawn  face,  saying: 

"Sit  down,  all  of  you,  for  my  story  is  not  a  short 
one,  though  for  all  our  sakes  I  will  make  it  as  brief 
as  possible. 

"You  will  remember,  William,  that  after  I  came 
into  possession  of  my  half  of  Uncle  Jabez's  fortune, 
I  went  abroad.  I  had-always  had  an  intense  longing 
to  see  Europe,  and  when  the  means  to  do  so  were  at 
my  disposal,  I  resolved  to  gratify  that  desire.  You 
know,  too,  that  as  a  family  we  had  always  been  poor. 
It  had  been  a  continual  struggle  with  us  to  secure 
even  the  necessaries  of  life,  and  the  battle  with  pov 
erty  had  been  a  most  bitter  one  to  me.  Now,  I  was 
bound  to  get  the  most  I  could  out  of  life,  to  make 
up  for  the  deprivations  of  my  youth.  I  indignantly 
refused  to  marry  as  my  uncle  desired,  for  I,  as  well 
as  you,  considered  that  he  had  no  right  to  make  any 


260  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

such  stipulations  in  disposing  of  his  money;  but  I  was 
young,  I  had  seven  years  before  me  in  which  to  enjoy 
my  wealth,  and  I  said  I  would  spend  every  dollar  of 
my  income  in  being  happy  and  making  up  to  my 
family  for  the  hardships  of  previous  years.  So  I 
settled  a  comfortable  income  on  my  father  and 
mother,  and  then,  taking  my  sister  Nellie  for  a  com 
panion,  I  sailed  for  Europe  to  gratify  my  taste  for 
travel  and  sight-seeing.  We  both  spoke  French  and 
German  fluently,  for  we  had  been  faithful  students, 
and  fitted  ourselves  for  teaching;  both  were  self- 
reliant  and  courageous  in  spite  of  our  youth — our 
conflict  with  our  unfavorable  surroundings  had  made 
us  so — therefore  we  felt  competent  to  travel  by  our 
selves  without  a  chaperon,  who,  we  felt,  would 
hamper  our  movements.  Some  of  the  time  we  had 
a  guide,  but  in  England,  France  and  Germany  we 
were  able  to  go  about  quite  independently.  It  was 
perhaps  a  daring  thing  to  do,  but  Nellie  was  some 
what  older  than  I,  and  very  self-possessed  and  digni 
fied  in  her  bearing,  and  we  never  met  with  the  slight 
est  inconvenience  from  being  without  an  escort.  We 
had  a  very  pleasant  time  together;  we  had  plenty  of 
money,  and  did  not  need  to  stint  ourselves;  Nell 
loved  art,  and  I  music,  so  for  a  year  we  put  ourselves 
under  the  best  of  masters,  and  gave  ourselves  up  to 
these  accomplishments,  and  had  our  fill.  But  I  am 
getting  somewhat  ahead  of  my  story. 

"While  we  were  in  London,  a  few  months  after 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  261 

reaching  England,  we  met  a  literary  gentleman,  a 
Mr.  Charles  Southcourt,  who  paid  me  considerable 
attention,  and  to  whom  I  was  very  strongly  attracted. 
We  met  often,  too,  upon  the  Continent,  for  he,  alsor 
was  traveling  in  search  of  material  for  his  writings,, 
and  our  routes  frequently  crossed  each  other. 
Finally,  during  my  second  year  abroad,  he  confessed 
his  affection  for  me,  and  asked  me  to  marry  him. 
He  was  brilliant,  handsome,  talented,  but  poor.  Had 
he  been  rich  I  would  not  have  hesitated  a  moment, 
for  I  loved  him;  but  I  knew,  far  too  well,  what  pov 
erty  was  to  be  willing  to  relinquish  my  fortune  and 
the  handsome  income  it  brought  me,  the  luxuries  it 
yielded  me,  to  say  nothing  of  depriving  my  parents 
and  sister  of  the  comforts  and  advantages  they  were 
enjoying,  and  I  refused  him.  He  knew4that  I  re 
turned  his  affection — he  had  not  dreamed  of  being 
rejected — and  demanded  the  reason.  I  told  him 
frankly.  He  then  informed  me  that  all  pecuniary 
difficulty  could  soon  be  removed,  for  there  was  a 
prospect  of  his  soon  receiving  a  responsible  appoint 
ment  somewhere  in  the  far  East,  which  would  secure 
him  an  ample  income  which,  with  what  he  should 
realize  from  his  writings,  would  enable  him  to  pro 
vide  for  the  comfortable  support  of  my  family,  and 
secure  to  me  every  luxury  which  my  own  fortune  was 
then  giving  me.  Would  I  become  his  wife  if  he 
secured  this  appointment?  he  asked.  I  told  him  yes, 
and  I  believe  if  it  had  not  been  for  depriving  my 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

delicate  and  aged  parents  and  sister  of  the  comforts 
they  were  enjoying — if  I  had  only  had  myself  to 
consider,  I  should  have  willingly  thrown  up  my  for 
tune,  and  become  his  wife,  whether  he  secured  the 
appointment  or  not. 

"Full  of  hope  at  having  won  my  consent,  Charlie 
returned  at  once  to  London — we  were  at  that  time  in 
Rome — to  bend  all  his  energies  to  secure  his  coveted 
position.  Two  months  later,  Nellie  and  I  returned 
to  Paris,  where  we  were  again  joined  by  Mr.  South- 
court,  who  was  jubilant,  for  he  said  he  was  sure  of 
his  appointment,  and  he  showed  me  a  letter,  from  a 
person  high  in  authority,  which  seemed  to  promise 
it  beyond  a  doubt. 

"About  this  time  we  received  a  letter  from  home 
telling  us  that  papa  was  failing;  the  physician  feared 
the  worst,  and  we  were  told  to  hold  ourselves  in 
readiness  to  return  at  once  if  he  should  continue  to 
grow  worse.  Mamma  wrote  that  she  could  not  bear 
to  shorten  our  pleasure,  but  she  knew  that  our  own 
"hearts  would  bid  us  come  if  they  found  that  he  could 
mot  rally;  that  was,  however,  merely  a  warning  to 
prepare  us;  she  would  write  again  if  there  was  any 
change  for  the  worse. 

"I  told  Nellie  that  we  must  go  home  at  once; 
something  might  happen  to  make  papa's  disease  ter 
minate  suddenly,  and  he  would  die  before  we  could 
possibly  reach  him,  if  we  should  wait  to  hear  from 
mamma  again.  Nellie  agreed  to  this,  but  Mr.  South- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  263 

court  was  very  unhappy  over  our  decision;  he  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  separation;  he  said  some 
thing  might  occur  to  make  it  final,  unless  I  should 
marry  him  at  once  and  give  him  the  right  to  call  me 
his  wife  before  I  left;  in  that  case  he  would  let  me 
go  and  feel  sure  of  me.  At  first  I  would  not  listen 
to  this  proposal.  I  knew  but  too  well  that  if  my 
marriage  was  discovered,  the  income  from  my  half 
of  Uncle  Jabez's  property  would  be  stopped,  and 
my  sick  and  dying  father  be  deprived  of  everything 
that  had  now  become  so  necessary  to  him.  But  Char 
lie  was  so  sure  that  he  should  get  his  appointment, 
when  he  would  at  once  settle  one-third  of  his  income 
upon  my  parents ;  he  was  so  hopeful  over  his  book.,, 
so  importunate  and  distressed  at  the  thought  of  my 
leaving,  while  Nellie  also  thought  there  could  be  no.) 
risk,  that  my  scruples  and  better  judgment  were  over 
come  and  I  yielded,  upon  one  condition — that  our 
marriage  be  kept  a  profound  secret  until  he  actually 
secured  his  position.  He  agreed  to  this,  because  he 
said  he  knew  I  should  scarcely  reach  home  before  he 
would  have  the  wherewithal  to  enable  me  to  make 
over  my  share  of  Uncle  Jabez's  fortune  to  my  cousin, 
without  missing  it,  and  so  we  were  privately  married, 
in  Paris  just  before  leaving  for  London. 

"Upon  our  arrival  there  we  found  that  a  steamer- 
had  just  sailed,  and  no  other  would  leave  for  three- 
or  four  days.     The  very  next  morning  we  received 
another  letter  from  home  saying  that  papa  had  ral- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

lied  and  was  so  much  improved,  mamma  regretted 
she  had  written  so  discouragingly  before,  and  told 
us  not  to  think  of  returning  until  we  felt  entirely 
ready  to  do  so.  I  was  so  happy  in  my  new  relations 
that  I  was  only  too  glad  of  this  respite,  for  the  pros 
pect  of  a  separation  from  my  husband  was  as  painful 
to  me  as  to  him.  Three  short,  blissful  weeks  after 
that  we  spent  together,  and  then  there  came  a  start 
ling  cable  message,  bidding  Nellie  and  me  to  return 
instantly." 

Mrs.  Mapleson  paused  and  struggled  with  herself 
at  this  point;  evidently  her  task  was  a  bitter  one,  and 
almost  more  than  she  was  able  to  accomplish. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  of  that  parting,"  she  finally  re 
sumed;  "it  was  almost  like  parting  soul  from  body, 
and  I  shall  never  forget  the  look  that  was  on  my 
Charlie's  face  as  he  stood  on  the  pier  at  Liverpool 
and  watched  the  vessel  that  bore  us  away  out  of 
sight 

"We  reached  home  just  in  season  to  be  recognized 
by  papa,  to  receive  his  dying  blessing  and  his  bidding 
to  care  tenderly  for  mamma,  and  then  he  was  gone. 
Our  mother  was  utterly  prostrated  by  his  death  and 
the  watching  during  the  long  weeks  of  his  illness, 
and  for  months  she,  too,  seemed  to  be  upon  the  bor 
ders  of  the  grave. 

"Meantime,  I  heard  regularly  from  Charlie,  and 
every  letter  told  me  of  some  delay  regarding  the  de 
cision  upon  his  appointment,  but  it  was  sure  to  be 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  265 

all  right  in  the  end,  he  said,  and  he  would  let  me 
know  the  very  moment  it  was  decided. 

"You  can  easily  realize  that  those  months  were 
anxious  ones  to  me,  for  I  feared,  as  the  guilty  always 
fear,  detection,  while,  too,  the  deception  I  was  prac 
ticing  was  inexpressibly  galling  to  me.  Mamma  ral 
lied  after  a  time,  and  for  a  little  while  we  thought 
she  would  recover,  but  the  improvement  was  not 
lasting,  and  it  soon  became  evident  that  consumption 
had  fastened  upon  her. 

"It  was  nearly  five  months  since  my  return,  and  I 
began  to  be  very  unhappy,  for  there  was  still  no 
favorable  news  from  my  husband.  One  day  I  was 
sitting  alone  in  my  room  writing  to  him,  and  feeling 
very  much  depressed,  when  Nellie  suddenly  burst 
in  upon  me,  her  face  all  aglow,  and  bearing  a  tele 
gram  in  her  hand. 

'  'Estelle,  what  will  you  give  me  for  good  news 
at  last?'  she  cried  gayly,  and  holding  the  telegram 
above  her  head,  out  of  my  reach. 

'  'I  will  give  you  a  hundred  dollars,  Nell,  if  it  is 
good  news,'  I  answered,  springing  up  to  take  it  from 
her,  my  heart  beating  high  with  hope,  for  I  felt 
sure  that  the  message  could  contain  nothing  else. 

"I  tore  it  open  with  trembling  eagerness,  only  to 
find  these  words  within: 

'  'Lost;  appointment  given  to  a  man  named  Wil- 
mot.  Will  write  particulars.' 


266  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"It  was  a  dreadful  blow!  Nellie  had  read  the 
message  over  my  shoulder,  and  for  a  moment  we 
were  both  so  paralyzed  that  we  could  only  look  into 
each  other's  face  in  dumb  agony.  Then  I  remem 
bered  nothing  more  for  a  week,  while  for  a  month  I 
did  not  leave  my  bed.  During  this  time  Charlie 
wrote,  bitterly  regretting  that  he  had  sent  me  the 
message,  but  saying  he  had  promised  to  let  me  know 
as  soon  as  the  matter  was  decided,  and  on  the  impulse 
of  the  moment,  his  judgment  blunted  by  his  own  dis 
appointment,  he  had  cabled  what  afterward  he  real 
ized  must  have  been  a  cruel  blow  to  me.  He  said 
that  money  had  bought  up  the  position,  while  he  had 
been  so  certain  that  the  influence  at  work  for  him 
was  stronger  than  any  amount  of  bribery  could  be. 
Still,  he  would  try  for  something  else,  and  do  his  ut 
most  ot  relieve  me  from  my  embarrassing  position. 

"All  this,  however,  was  poor  consolation  for  me; 
I  could  not  confess  my  marriage  and  go  to  him  a 
beggar  in  his  poverty,  even  though  my  heart  longed 
for  him  with  all  the  strength  of  its  deep  and  lasting 
love.  My  mother  failing,  slowly,  but  surely,  was 
dependent  upon  me  for  every  comfort  that  she  pos 
sessed,  and  besides  this  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind 
to  put  the  ocean  between  us  when  I  knew  I  should 
never  see  her  again  if  I  did.  My  husband  had  spoken 
of  my  'embarrassing  position,'  but  he  did  not  dream 
one-half  the  truth,  for  I  had  concealed  from  him  the 
fact  that  I  was  soon  to  become  a  mother." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MRS.  MAPLESON'S  STORY  CONCLUDED 

"Estelle !"  exclaimed  Colonel  Mapleson,  in  a 
shocked,  yet  sympathetic  tone,  "of  all  the  romances 
that  I  have  ever  read  or  known, this  is  the  strangest!" 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Mapleson  continued,  "I  had  per 
sistently  refrained  from  telling  my  husband  my  se 
cret,  and  Nellie  alone  knew  it.  At  first  I  only  meant 
to  reserve  it  until  he  should  come  for  me,  as  he  was 
to  do  immediately  upon  securing  his  position.  I  was 
sure  that,  if  he  knew,  he  would  instantly  demand  my 
return  to  him,  and  an  open  acknowledgment  of  our 
union,  and  so  I  kept  putting  it  off,  until  now,  that  I 
had  received  that  fatal  news,  it  was  too  late.  I 
could  not  send  for  him  to  come  to  me,  for  then  the 
secret  must  come  out  with  all  its  direful  results, 
while  I  knew  he  could  not  take  care  of  me  in  a 
strange  country  when  he  was  so  unsuccessful  in  his 
own.  I  was  almost  insane  for  a  time,  for  I  saw  no 
way  out  of  my  difficulties.  My  mother  was  so  feeble 
that  she  demanded  the  constant  attendance  of  a 
nurse,  and  the  most  expensive  luxuries,  to  prolong 
her  life.  Where  would  the  money  come  from  to  fur- 

267 


268  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

nish  all  these,  if  it  should  become  known  that  I  had 
violated  the  conditions  of  my  uncle's  will?  Where, 
too,  would  the  money  come  to  meet  my  own  expenses 
of  maternity,  and  to  care  for  the  little  one  that 
would  soon  be  mine?  All  too  late  I  realized  the 
terrible  mistake  that  I  had  made  in  yielding  to  Char 
lie's  importunities,  although  I  loved  my  husband 
most  tenderly. 

"  'What  shall  I  do?'  I  cried,  in  despair,  to  my  sis 
ter,  one  day,  when  all  these  facts,  and  the  terrible 
fate  awaiting  their  revelation,  had  been  reviewed  for 
the  hundredth  time. 

"  Til  tell  you  what  I've  thought  of  Estelle,'  Nellie 
answered,  gravely.  'It  seems  a  dreadful  thing  to 
do — heartless,  dishonorable,  and  everything  else  that 
is  bad — and  yet  I  see  no  alternative.  We  must  man 
age  some  way  to  keep  your  money — at  least,  so  long 
as  mamma  lives;  we  must  not  let  her  sufjer,  though 
I'd  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  rather  than  do  such 
a  thing  for  my  own  sake.  William  Mapleson  does 
not  need  your  fortune;  he  has  enough  already.  Rob 
ert  Dale,  that  miserable  old  miser,  would  only  "hide 
it  in  a  napkin,"  if  he  were  to  get  it.  So  we  may  as 
well  have  the  benefit  of  it,  at  least  until  Charlie  is 
able  to  do  something  for  you.  Now  for  my  plan. 
You  have  had  a  long  illness;  you  are  drooping,  fail 
ing;  you  need,  must  have,  a  change.  Mamma  is 
quite  comfortable  just  now,  and,  with  the  nurse  to 
attend  her,  does  not  really  need  any  one  else.  But 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  269 

that  she  may  not  feel  lonely  without  us,  we  will  send 
for  her  old  friend,  Miss  Willford,  to  come  for  a  long 
visit,  and  then  we  will  go  off  on  a  trip  for  your  bene 
fit.' 

"  'Oh,  Nell,  will  you  go  with  me?'  I  sobbed,  in  a 
burst  of  relief  and  gratitude. 

"  'Indeed  I  shall.  You  did  not  suppose  I  would 
send  you  off  alone,  I  hope,'  she  answered,  and  then 
she  further  unfolded  her  plan. 

"We  would  pretend  that  we  both  needed  a  change, 
after  the  confinement  of  the  last  few  months.  No 
one  would  then  suspect  any  secret  reason  for  our  go 
ing.  We  would  travel  a  while,  keeping  as  secluded 
as  possible,  and  finally  go  to  some  large  city — Bos 
ton  we  finally  decided  upon,  as  we  had  never  been 
there,  and  knew  not  a  soul  living  there — where  we 
would  remain  until  after  the  birth  of  my  child.  Then 
we  would  give  it  into  the  care  of  some  one,  paying 
well  for  it,  until  my  husband  was  in  a  position  to 
claim  me;  and  then,  as  soon  as  I  had  regained  my 
strength,  we  would  return  home,  and  no  one  would 
be  the  wiser  for  what  had  occurred. 

"This  plan  gave  me  new  courage.  All  my  former 
energy  returned,  and  I  immediately  began  my  ar 
rangements  for  my  proposed  trip.  Mamma  and  her 
nurse  both  favored  it,  and  Miss  Willford  was  sent 
for.  I  wrote  my  husband  of  our  plans — or  as  much 
regarding  them  as  we  told  anybody — telling  him  how 
to  address  his  letters;  and  then  Nellie  and  I  went 


270  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

away,  without  exciting  the  suspicion  of  any  one  re 
garding  our  real  object.  We  went  first  to  Philadel 
phia,  where  we  remained  in  secluded  lodgings  for  a 
few  weeks,  giving  our  names  as  'Mrs.  Marston  and 
maid,  Nellie  Durham' — Nellie  preferring  to  act  in 
that  capacity.  Then  we  proceeded  to  New  York, 
where  we  stopped  a  while,  finally  going  on  to  Boston, 
where  my  little  girl  was  born." 

Geoffrey  turned  abruptly  around  and  faced  Mr. 
Huntress  as  Mrs.  Mapleson  reached  this  point  in  her 
story.  Never  until  that  moment  had  he  suspected 
that  Gladys  was  not  his  kind  friend's  own  daughter. 
But  he  knew  that  he  had  formerly  resided  in  Boston. 
He  remembered  that  Mrs.  Mapleson  had  addressed 
him  as  August  Damon,  and  how  she  had  been  over 
come  upon  meeting  him.  He  remembered,  too,  how, 
when  he  had  proposed  leaving  the  room  while  she 
made  her  confession  to  her  husband,  she  had  said 
"if  any  one  had  a  right  to  hear  her  story,  he  had," 
and  putting  all  these  things  together,  it  flashed  upon 
him  that  Gladys  might  have  been  that  little  girl  who 
was  born,  under  such  peculiar  circumstances,  in  Bos 
ton. 

Mr.  Huntress  met  his  inquiring  glance,  and  smiled 
faintly;  but  he  was  very  pale  and  sorrowful. 

It  had  not  been  an  easy  matter  for  him  to  sit  there 
and  listen  to  that  story,  and  to  have  it  revealed  that 
Gladys  was  not  his  very  own.  He  had  always  hoped 
to  be  able  to  keep  the  secret  of  her  adoption. 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  271 

"Is  it  true,  Uncle  August?"  Geoffrey  questioned. 

Mr.  Huntress  nodded  gravely. 

"How  very,  very  strange !"  said  the  young  man, 
with  a  perplexed  face. 

Then  his  countenance  suddenly  brightened! 

He  leaned  eagerly  forward,  laid  his  hand  on  Mr. 
Huntress'  knee,  and  whispered,  excitedly: 

"Then  he — Everet  Mapleson,  is  her  half-brother, 
and  that  marriage  was  nothing  but  an  illegal  farce!" 

"That  is  true — I  have  been  thinking  of  that  very 
thing,"  returned  Mr.  Huntress,  grasping  the  hand 
upon  his  knee  with  cordial  sympathy,  "and  though 
it  has  been  very  hard  to  have  the  fact  revealed,  that 
our  dear  girl  was  not  quite  our  own,  yet  my  joy  at 
having  that  great  trouble  so  easily  wiped  out  of  ex 
istence,  counteracts  all  the  pain." 

"What  is  it?"  Mrs.  Mapleson  asked,  wondering  at 
their  eager  whispering  and  excited  manner. 

"I  will  tell  you  later,  madame,"  Mr.  Huntress  re 
plied.  "Pardon  the  interruption,  and  pray  go  on." 

"William,  the  worst  of  my  story  is  yet  to  come," 
Mrs.  Mapleson  resumed,  turning  with  a  pathetic 
look  to  her  husband. 

He  reached  forth  one  hand,  and  laid  it  affection 
ately  upon  hers. 

"Do  not  think  me  so  hard,  Estelle,"  he  said,  in  a 
low,  kind  tone;  "I  do  not  forget  the  'beam'  that  was 
in  my  own  eye,  and  I  have  no  right  to  criticise  the 
'mote'  in  yours,  especially  when  you  have  been  so 


272  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

great  a  sufferer,  and  your  hands  were  so  tied  by  your 
dependent  mother  and  sister.  Your  heart  was  all 
right — you  would  never  have  concealed  anything  but 
for  the  force  of  circumstances." 

"Oh,  wait;  you  have  yet  to  learn  that  my  heart  was 
not  all  right,"  she  moaned,  dropping  her  head  upon 
her  hand.  "My  baby  was  a  beautiful  child — I  real 
ized  that  the  first  time  I  looked  upon  her,  but  I  did 
not  dare  to  let  my  love  go  out  toward  her,  for  I 
knew  that  I  must  give  her  up,  at  least  for  a  time. 
And  yet,  what  to  do  with  her  was  a  very  trying  ques 
tion.  At  first  I  thought  of  putting  her  into  some 
institution,  requiring  some  pledge  that  she  should  not 
be  given  away  within  a  specified  time.  But  I  found 
I  could  not  do  this,  so  I  advertised  for  some  one  to 
adopt  her,  promising  to  give  five  hundred  dollars 
with  the  child.  I  received  numberless  letters  in  re 
ply,  but  only  one  out  of  them  all  really  pleased  me, 
and  this  was  signed  'August  and  Alice  Damon.'  ' 

"Ah !  now  I  understand,"  interposed  Colonel  Ma- 
pleson,  glancing  quickly  at  Mr.  Huntress,  and  look 
ing  intensely  relieved. 

Then  his  eyes  wandered  to  Geoffrey. 

"How  wonderful !  that  those  two  should  have 
found  a  home  in  the  same  family!"  he  murmured. 

"I  appointed  a  meeting  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Da 
mon,"  his  wife  went  on.  "They  came,  and  at  once  I 
knew  that  they  were  the  very  people  to  whom  I 
would  confide  my  little  girl,  in  preference  to  all 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

others.  But  you  gave  me  an  assumed  name,"  she 
said,  pausing,  and  turning  to  Mr.  Huntress. 

"Not  an  assumed  name,  madame,  but  only  a  part 
of  my  real  name,  which  is  August  Damon  Huntress," 
that  gentleman  explained. 

"Why  did  you  withhold  your  surname  from  me?" 

"Madame,  I  knew  well  enough  that  your  name 
was  not  Marston.  I  felt  sure  that  no  mother  would 
give  away  her  child,  as  you  were  doing,  and  reveal 
her  identity.  On  the  other  hand,  I  did  not  wish  the 
identity  of  the  child  preserved.  I  did  not  intend  that 
you  should  have  any  advantage  over  me.  If  I  took 
her,  I  meant  her  to  be  mine  wholly,  without  running 
any  risk  of  having  her  taken  from  me,  or  of  ever 
learning  that  she  had  been  abandoned  to  the  care  of 
strangers.  Consequently,  I  gave  you  the  name  of 
Damon." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Mapleson,  with  a  sigh,  "as  it 
happened,  it  made  no  difference,  but  if  I  had  sus 
pected  it  at  the  time,  you  would  not  have  had  my 
child,  for  I  meant  to  keep  track  of  her.  /  meant  to 
have  her  again  just  as  soon  as  my  husband  and  I 
were  reunited." 

"But  you  told  me,"  began  Mr.  Huntress,  with  an 
amazed,  horrified  face 

"I  know  I  did,"  the  lady  interrupted.  "I  promised 
you  that  I  would  never  trouble  you — would  never 
even  ask  to  see  her.  I  pretended  to  give  her  to  you 
unreservedly,  although,  you  remember,  I  would  not 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

subscribe  to  any  legal  form  of  adoption.  I  allowed 
you  and  others  to  think  me  a  heartless,  unnatural 
monster  for  the  sake  of  gaining  for  my  little  one  a 
good  home  and  loving  care  until  I  could  see  my  way 
clear  to  demand  her  restoration.  It  was  dishonora 
ble — it  was  a  wretched  deception,  but  it  was  all  a 
part  of  that  terrible  secret  that  had  to  be  guarded  at 
whatever  cost.  But  I  had  to  pay  dearly  for  it,  as 
you  will  soon  realize. 

"My  sister  and  I  left  Boston,  both  of  us  in  better 
spirits  than  we  had  been  since  leaving  England,  for 
we  believed  that  everything  had  been  so  successfully 
concealed  there  was  not  the  slightest  danger  of  dis 
covery.  We  came  back  to  our  home  to  find  mamma 
more  comfortable  than  when  we  left  her,  having  had 
a  bright,  cheerful  visit  with  her  old  friend,  while  she 
appeared  delighted  with  the  improvement  which  our 
trip  had  made  in  us.  But  she  lived  only  one  short 
month  after  that.  She  took  a  sudden  cold,  which 
"brought  on  a  hemorrhage  that  terminated  her  life  in 
a  few  hours. 

"More  than  this,"  Mrs.  Mapleson  went  on,  hur 
riedly,  while  she  pressed  her  clasped  hands  over  her 
heart,  as  if  to  hold  in  check  its  painful  throbbings, 
while  she  related  the  saddest  event  of  her  whole  life, 
"on  the  very  day  that  she  was  buried  a  bulky  package 
was  brought  to  me,  postmarked  'London.'  It  con 
tained  considerable  manuscript,  a  Bank  of  England 
note  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  my  marriage 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  275 

certificate,  and — a  letter.  The  letter  told  me — oh, 
William  P'  she  burst  forth  in  a  quavering  voice,  "you 
knew  that  your  Annie  must  die.  You  had  to  face 
the  dread  fact  before  it  really  came,  and  you  were 
somewhat  prepared  for  it;  but  I — I  had  no  warning; 
the  shock  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  to  crush  me!  My 
Charlie  was  dead  long  before  I  knew  it.  He  had 
been  in  his  grave  nearly  a  fortnight  when  the  terrible 
news  came  to  me.  The  letter  was  from  a  friend  of 
my  husband,  and  stated  that  he  had  met  with  an  acci 
dent  that  must  result  fatally,  having  been — crushed 
— in  a  falling  elevator." 

The  poor  woman  appeared  hardly  capable  of  go 
ing  on.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  agony  of  that  dreadful 
time  was  revived  by  this  recital. 

"He  had  only  a  few  hours  to  live,"  she  went  on,  at 
last,  "and,  though  he  could  not  hold  a  pen  to  write 
me  one  line,  he  made  up  that  package  with  his  own 
hands,  telling  his  friend  that  it  was  to  be  forwarded 
to  Miss  Estelle  Everet.  You  see,  he  kept  my  secret 
even  while  dying,  and  would  not  send  me  one  of  the 
fond  messages  of  which  I  know  his  heart  must  have 
been  full,  for  fear  of  betraying  me.  He  said  that  I 
would  take  charge  of  the  publishing  of  the  manu 
script,  if  I  thought  best  to  give  it  to  the  world,  for 
the  expenses  of  which  he  inclosed  the  Bank  of  Eng 
land  note.  That,  however,  was  only  a  blind,  for  the 
manuscript  was  in  such  a  crude  state  it  could  not  be 
published,  and  he  had  simply  taken  that  way  to  send 


5276  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

me,  without  exciting  suspicion,  the  only  existing 
proof  of  our  marriage,  and  what  little  money  he  pos 
sessed. 

"My  fond,  faithful  Charlie!  He  deserved  a  bet 
ter  fate  and  a  better  wife.  Of  course,  after  that, 
there  was  no  fear  of  discovery,  even  though  I 
mourned  with  the  bitterness  of  despair  over  my  lost 
hopes.  My  mother's  death  was  excuse  enough  for 
my  grief,  though  people  said  I  laid  it  to  heart  more 
than  they  imagined  I  could.  For  a  long  time  I  felt 
as  if  life  was  little  better  than  a  mockery.  Mine 
certainly  thus  far  had  been  a  miserable  failure.  My 
husband  dead,  my  child  lost  to  me  forever — for,  of 
course,  I  could  never  claim  her  now — what  was  there 
in  the  world  for  me  to  live  for? 

"After  a  time  I  grew  bitter  and  reckless.  I  told 
myself  if  I  could  not  have  the  blessings  that  usually 
crown  a  woman's  life,  I  would  make  the  most  of  the 
fortune  that  I  still  possessed;  I  would  travel — I 
would  see  the  world — I  would  not  deny  myself  a 
single  wish  or  whim.  My  sister  and  I  started  off 
again.  We  went  to  England  first,  where  I  found 
my  husband's  grave,  but  did  not  dare  even  to  mark 
it  with  any  expression  of  my  love.  We  went  to 
Egypt  and  Palestine,  joining  a  party  of  travelers 
thither,  and  after  spending  another  year  in  roving  we 
came  back  once  more  to  America. 

"Three  months  after  our  return,  Nellie,  too,  sick 
ened  and  died,  and  I  was  left  utterly  alone  in  the 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  277 

world — alone  with  my  ill-gotten  wealth  and  splendor. 
What  was  my  money  to  me  then? — like  the  apples  of 
Sodom;  and  yet  I  experienced  a  grim  sort  of  satisfac 
tion  that  the  income  of  Uncle  Jabez's  property  was 
still  mine,  that  I  had  outwitted  the  world  and  the 
lawyers  or  executors  of  Uncle  Jabez's  will  by  my 
art  and  cunning.  But  only  a  little  more  than  a  year 
remained  before  I  should  be  twenty-five,  when,  if 
my  cousin  and  I  were  both  unmarried,  Robert  Dale 
would  have  our  fortune.  I  grew  rebellious  at  the 
thought.  I  had  nothing  but  my  money  to  live  for 
now,  and  my  money  I  wanted  to  keep.  I  had  sacri 
ficed  truth,  principle,  and  all  the  noblest  elements  of 
my  woman's  nature  for  it,  and  I  was  willing  to  make 
almost  any  sacrifice  now  to  retain  it. 

"Just  about  this  time  you  returned,  William,  and," 
a  burning  blush  now  suffused  the  face  of  the  proud 
woman,  "I  welcomed  you  with  secret  joy,  and  in 
stantly  made  up  my  mind  to  marry  you  if  you  would 
have  me.  I  made  myself  agreeable  to  you  with  that 
sole  object  in  view.  You  know  how  well  I  succeeded, 
althought  you  did  not  dream  that  I  was  scheming  for 
that,  and  I  did  not  experience  a  qualm,  since  I  did  not 
deceive  you  regarding  the  state  of  my  heart  toward 
you ;  my  acceptance  of  you  was  as  frank  as  your  pro 
posal  for  my  hand.  Neither  of  us  professed  any 
love  for  the  other;  we  simply  decided  that  it  would 
be  a  wise  union,  and  that  we  could  be  a  very  com 
fortable  couple.  A  strange,  heartless  arrangement, 


278  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

I  suppose  the  world  would  have  said  could  it  have 
read  our  motives,  but  it  would  have  seemed  even 
more  strange  if  the  experience  of  our  lives  had  been 
revealed.  I  was  hardened  and  reckless  then,  for 
I  felt  that  fate  had  used  me  very  badly.  I  have  not 
deserved  the  quiet,  peaceful  years — quiet  and  peace 
ful  but  for  the  stings  of  conscience — that  have  been 
my  lot  since.  I  have  been  growing  happier  during 
all  that  time,  growing  to " 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  flashing  a  quick,  pained 
glance  at  her  husband,  while  the  blood  again 
mounted  to  her  brow. 

"During  all  these  years,"  she  continued,  presently, 
"I  have  never  learned  anything  regarding  my  child, 
save  once.  Last  summer,  after  Everet  left  me  at 
Newport,  to  come  home,  I  was  comparatively  alone 
there  for  a  few  days,  my  friends,  whom  I  was  ex 
pecting  to  meet,  not  having  arrived,  and  a  sudden 
impulse  seized  me  to  go  to  Boston  and  try  to  learn 
something  about  my  daughter.  I  had  always  kept 
the  card  you  gave  me,  Mr.  Huntress,  and  I  imagined 
if  you  were  still  in  that  city  I  could  trace  you  through 
the  directory. 

"Upon  my  arrival  I  stepped  into  a  drug  store  on 
Washington  street  and  asked  for  the  directory,  to 
begin  my  search.  You  can  imagine  something  of  my 
amazement  and  consternation  when  I  found  myself 
face  to  face  with  the  physician  who  had  attended  me 
at  the  birth  of  my  child.  He  also  recognized  me, 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  279 

although  I  tried  to  deceive  him  regarding  my  iden 
tity.  But  he  insisted  that  he  knew  me,  and  finding 
denial  useless,  I  appealed  to  him  for  information 
regarding  my  child.  He  said  he  knew  the  man  well 
who  had  adopted  her — that  he  had  been  for  years 
the  family  physician;  but  he  would  not  give  me  his 
name  or  address." 

"That  must  have  been  Dr.  Turner,"  said  Mr. 
Huntress,  looking  astonished;  "but  how  could  he 
have  known  that  we  adopted  the  child?  We  never 
told  him  that  she  was  not  our  own." 

"True;  but  he  was  called  to  attend  her  for  some 
slight  ailment  only  a  few  days  after  you  took  her,, 
and  recognized  her;  he  would  not,  however,  violate 
your  confidence  nor  his  sense  of  honor  by  telling  me 
anything  by  which  I  could  trace  you  or  the  child.  He 
comforted  me  greatly,  though,  by  assuring  me  that 
she  was  a  beautiful  and  talented  young  lady;  that  she 
had  received  every  advantage,  and  was  surrounded 
by  the  fondest  love  and  care.  I  remember  now  that 
I  have  seen  her,"  Mrs.  Mapleson  said,  with  starting 
tears,  "and  my  heart  yearns  strongly  for  her  as  I 
think  of  it.  I  saw  her  at  Yale  when  my  son  gradu 
ated;  she  was  with  you,"  turning  to  Geoffrey,  "and 
she  is  truly  a  lovely  girl.  Mr.  Huntress,  you  have 
held  your  trust  sacred,  and  I  am  deeply  grateful  to 
you." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AN    UNEXPECTED    RETURN 

"SuRELY,  Estelle,  your  lot  has  been  a  hard  one," 
Colonel  Mapleson  gravely  remarked,  after  an  op 
pressive  silence;  "your  sufferings  have  been  keener 
than  mine,  and  I  can  only  wonder  how  you  have 
concealed  them  so  successfully  during  all  these 
years." 

"I  promised  that  I  would  try  to  make  you  a  good 
wife,  and  I  have  striven  to  be  agreeable  and  com 
panionable  to  you.  I  knew  if  you  suspected  that  I 
had  any  secret  sorrow,  you  would  imagine  it  was 
because  I  was  unhappy  with  you,  and  so  I  have  done 
my  best  to  appear  contented  with  my  life." 

"Done  your  best  to  appear  contented,"  repeated 
Colonel  Mapleson,  with  some  bitterness,  but  in  a 
tone  that  reached  her  alone. 

His  wife  looked  up  quickly,  and  a  bright  flush 
dyed  her  face  again. 

She  reached  forward,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
arm. 

"I  have  been  content,  William,"  she  said,  under 
her  breath;  "it  was  only  a  little  while  that  I  had  to 

£80 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  281 

strive — while  my  grief  was  so  keen  and  fresh.  But 
let  us  not  talk  of  this  now,"  she  concluded,  with  a 
glance  toward  their  visitors. 

Colonel  Mapleson  sighed;  then  he  said,  with  an 
anxious  look  at  her  face: 

"Estelle,  I  am  afraid  all  this  excitement  will  prove 
too  much  for  you,  and  you  had  better  go  to  rest; 
but,  first,  come  and  speak  to  my  son,  will  you?" 

His  tone  was  pleading,  and  his  unusual  gentleness 
touched  her;  it  told  her  that  he  felt  more  of  sympa 
thy  than  blame  for  the  errors  of  her  past.  She  arose 
with  a  sense  of  relief,  such  as  she  had  not  experienced 
during  all  her  married  life.  Her  burdensome  secret 
• — that  terrible  barrier  that  had  always  stood  between 
her  and  her  husband — was  at  last  swept  away.  She 
could  not  tell  whether  it  would  create  an  impassable 
gulf  between  them  or  not,  but  at  least  she  had  noth 
ing  now  to  conceal. 

She  went  to  Geoffrey  with  him,  prepared  to  wel 
come  him  as  her  husband's  first-born,  with  all  the 
cordiality  of  which  she  was  mistress. 

"My  boy,"  said  the  colonel,  holding  out  his  hand 
to  him,  "can  you  own  your  father  after  all  that  you 
have  heard? — can  you  forgive  the  deception  of  my 
early  years — my  moral  cowardice  in  turning  my 
back  upon  you  at  Saratoga — and  let  me  have  the 
satisfaction  of  repairing,  as  far  as  may  be,  the  hard 
ships  of  your  youth?  My  debt  of  gratitude  to  your 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

other  father" — with  a  glance  at  Mr.  Huntress — "I 
can  never  repay." 

Geoffrey  warmly  grasped  that  extended  hand. 

"You  have  made  my  heart  more  glad  than  I  can 
tell  you,  sir,"  he  said.  "I  can  forget — I  can  overlook 
everything,  now  that  I  know  my  mother  was  your 
loved  and  honored  wife.  I  came  here  fearing  the 
worst — fearing  that  a  dreadful  stigma  rested  upon 
my  birth — that  I  was  not  entitled  to  an  honorable 
name." 

"You  are  entitled  to  much  more  than  that,  Geof 
frey,"  Colonel  Mapleson  returned,  smiling,  although 
his  lips  trembled  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears; 
"there  is  a  handsome  fortune  awaiting  your  dis 
posal." 

"A  fortune !"  said  the  young  man,  wonderingly. 

"Yes,  inherited  through  your  mother  from  that 
very  same  old  miser — Robert  Dale — of  whom  you 
have  heard  so  much  this  evening." 

"How  can  that  be?"  Geoffrey  asked,  while  Mrs. 
Mapleson  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"You  shall  know  very  soon;  but  first  shake  hands 
with  my  wife,"  his  father  responded,  presenting 
Mrs.  Mapleson. 

"You  are,  indeed,  very  much  like  my  son,"  she 
murmured,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand;  "and,  believe 
me,"  she  added,  with  touching  humility,  "I  am  re 
joiced  to  have  you  restored  to  my  husband,  even  at 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  283 

the  expense  of  the  trying  confessions  and  revelations 
of  this  evening." 

Geoffrey  respectfully  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips, 
and  the  act  conveyed,  far  better  than  words  could 
have  done,  the  sympathy  he  felt  for  the  suffering 
which  she  had  endured. 

She  then  bade  Mr.  Huntress  good-night,  after 
which  her  husband  led  her  from  the  room. 

He  accompanied  her  to  her  own  door. 

"Good-night,  Estelle,"  he  said,  gently.  "I  hope 
you  will  go  directly  to  bed  and  try  to  sleep." 

She  turned  suddenly — that  proud,  imperious 
woman,  who,  for  more  than  twenty  years,  had  re 
pressed  every  sign  of  affection  for  him — and  threw 
herself  upon  his  breast. 

"Oh !  William,  say  that  you  do  not  quite  hate  me 
for  what  I  have  told  you  to-night!"  she  cried,  in  an 
agonized  tone. 

Her  husband  looked  astonished  at  her  act;  then 
his  face  softened,  his  eyes  lighted  with  sudden  joy. 

"Why,  my  wife?  I  believe  you  almost  love  me 
after  all!  Do  you,  Estelle?"  he  eagerly  questioned; 
"do  I  possess  any  more  of  your  heart  now  than  I  did 
when  you  married  me,  or  has  it  been  a  continual 
struggle  all  along  to  be  a  good  wife  to  me?" 

She  was  sobbing  like  a  child,  now;  the  haughty,  in 
domitable  spirit  that  had  upheld  her  so  long  was  sub 
dued  at  last. 

"I  have  not  dared  to  let  you  see  how  much  of  my 


284  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

heart  you  have  won;  you  know  you  told  me  you  did 
not  entertain  a  lover's  affection  for  me,  and  I  would 
not  force  mine  upon  you,"  she  confessed,  with  her 
face  stil!  hidden  upon  his  breast. 

He  folded  his  arms  more  closely  about  her. 

"And  /  have  imagined  that  you  were  holding  me 
at  arms'  length  during  all  our  life,"  he  said,  laying 
his  cheek  softly  against  her  still  glossy  hair.  "Estelle, 
we  will  be  lovers  all  the  rest  of  our  lives,  for,  my 
wife,  you  have  become  very,  very  dear  to  me — I  did 
not  realize  how  dear  until  now.  We  will  not  look 
backward  any  more,  but  forward;  we  have  both 
erred  greatly  in  the  past,  and  it  would  511  become 
either  of  us  to  criticise  the  other.  Tell  me,  shall 
we  drop  the  vail  of  charity  over  it  all,  and  begin  to 
live  our  real  life  from  this  hour?" 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  put  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  and  voluntarily  laid  her  lips  against 
his  cheek. 

"I  do  not  deserve  this,  William,"  she  said,  humbly, 
"but  you  have  made  me  happier  than  I  ever  expected 
to  be  again." 

He  returned  her  caress  with  great  tenderness,  then 
said: 

"I  must  not  keep  you  standing  here,  dear,  nor  our 
guests  waiting  below;  but  I  will  come  to  you  again 
later." 

He  opened  the  door  for  her  to  pass  in,  then  closed 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  285 

it,  and  returned  to  his  visitors,  brushing  aside  some 
truant  tears  as  he  went. 

His  face,  however,  lighted  with  pleasure  as  he 
again  entered  the  library,  and  looked  into  Geoffrey's 
noble,  manly  face,  and  realized  that  he  was  really 
the  son  of  the  beautiful  young  wife  whom  he  so 
loved  years  ago. 

But  the  young  man  himself  was  very  grave. 

He  felt  that  he  stood  in  an  exceedingly  delicate 
position. 

H*e  had  come  to  Colonel  Mapleson,  believing  that 
he  had  wronged  his  mother,  and  wilfully  abandoned 
him  when  a  child;  he  had  meant  to  denounce  him  for 
it,  and  reveal  also  the  villainy  of  which  his  other  son 
had  been  guilty. 

But  he  had  found  a  father  ready  and  eager  to  wel 
come  him,  ready  to  acknowledge  the  wife  of  his 
youth,  and  to  give  his  son  the  place  that  rightfully 
belonged  to  him;  and  now  it  seemed  almost  cruel  to 
expose  the  wrong  of  which  his  half-brother  had  been 
guilty.  He  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  coming 
between  the  two  in  any  way;  of  destroying  the  confi 
dence  of  the  father  in  the  son. 

Something  of  this  Geoffrey  and  Mr.  Huntress 
had  been  considering  during  Colonel  Mapleson's  ab 
sence  from  the  room.  They  had  about  decided  to 
say  nothing  of  the  affair  of  the  interrupted  marriage, 
until  they  had  seen  Everet,  and  acquainted  him  with 
the  facts  which  that  night  had  revealed.  Perhaps 


286  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

•• 

they  could  arrange  to  hush  up  the  matter  altogether, 
if  the  young  man  proved  to  be  amicably  inclined  or 
reasonable;  at  all  events,  they  had  concluded  not  to 
mention  the  affair  that  night — to,  at  least,  give  it  a 
little  more  thought  first  In  explaining  about  the 
broken  cross,  Geoffrey  had  simply  said  that  they  had 
seen  the  other  half  in  Everet's  possession,  and  that  he 
knew  nothing  of  their  visit  to  Vue  de  1'Eau. 

It  seemed  as  if  a  great  weight  had  been  lifted  from 
Colonel  Mapleson's  heart  when  he  returned. 

He  drew  a  chair  near  his  guests,  and  began  at 
once  to  enter  more  into  the  details  of  the  past.  He 
gave  them  a  full  history  of  his  eccentric  relative, 
Robert  Dale;  told  of  his  long-concealed  fortune, 
when  and  how  it  had  been  discovered,  together  with 
the  will  which  bequeathed  the  whole  of  it  to  Geof- 
rey's  mother. 

"This,  of  course,  now  becomes  yours,"  he  con 
cluded,  turning  to  the  young  man,  with  a  smile. 
"Quite  a  fine  property,  it  is,  too,  amounting,  with  the 
accumulated  interest,  to  upward  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  dollars.  Besides  this,  you  will  inherit 
one-half  of  what  I  possess,  the  other  half  going  to 
Everet." 

"I  could  not  take  anything  from  this  estate,  sir," 
Geoffrey  said,  suddenly  growing  crimson. 

"Why  not?"  questioned  his  father. 

"Because  you  married  contrary  to  the  conditions  of 
your  uncle's  will,  so,  in  that  case,  I  do  not  feel  that  I 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  287 

have  any  real  right  to  any  of  it.  If  your  marriage 
had  been  discovered,  you  would  have  had  to  forfeit 
all  to  your  cousin,  Miss  Everet." 

"You  are  very  conscientious,"  replied  Colonel  Ma- 
pleson,  gravely. 

Then  he  suddenly  looked  up,  with  a  wise  smile. 

"It  has  not  occurred  to  you,  I  perceive,"  he  added, 
"that  you  could  claim  every  dollar  that  Mrs.  Maple- 
son  and  I  possess.  We  both  violated  the  conditions 
of  that  will;  consequently,  our  fortunes  rightly  be 
longed  to  Robert  Dale,  and  you,  being  his  only  heir, 
would  inherit  it  all." 

Geoffrey  looked  amazed  at  this.  Such  a  thought 
had  not  occurred  to  him;  but  now  he  could  not  fail 
to  see  the  force  of  his  father's  argument. 

"I  do  not  want  it — I  could  not  take  it;  I  shall  have 
more  than  enough  from  what  will  come  to  me  from 
my  mother,"  he  said. 

"There  are  few  people  in  the  world  who  would  not 
take  all  they  could  get,"  replied  Colonel  Mapleson, 
feeling  a  certain  pride  in  this  noble  renunciation  of 
his  son.  "But,  taking  everything  into  consideration, 
it  seems  to  me  that  matters  are  somewhat  compli 
cated  with  us.  I  suppose  Mrs.  Mapleson's  daugh 
ter — your  adopted  child,  Mr.  Huntress — will  come 
in  for  her  share  of  her  mother's  property." 

August  Huntress  flushed. 

A  painful  struggle  had  been  going  on  in  his  mind 
ever  since  his  meeting  with  Mrs.  Mapleson. 


288  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

He  could  not  endure,  for  a  moment,  the  thought 
of  ever  having  Gladys  know  anything  about  her 
birth.  She  fully  believed  herself  to  be  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Huntress'  own  child,  and  he  knew  it  would  be  a  rude 
shock  to  her  to  learn  that  she  was  not,  and  to  be  told 
the  facts  regarding  her  parentage,  and  he  meant  to 
prevent  it  if  he  could. 

"Colonel  Mapleson,"  he  said,  speaking  very  seri 
ously,  "I  hope  that  Gladys  will  never  learn  that  she 
is  not  really  my  child;  I  never  wish  her  to  receive 
anything  from  Mrs.  Mapleson." 

The  colonel's  face  fell. 

He  knew  that  his  wife's  heart  was  yearning  after 
her  child;  at  the  same  time,  he  could  understand  and 
appreciate  Mr.  Huntress'  sensitiveness  upon  the  sub 
ject;  while,  too,  the  young  girl  could  not  fail  to  be 
painfully  shocked  upon  learning  the  sad,  even  cruel, 
history  connected  with  her  birth. 

"I  think  it  would  be  a  great  disappointment  to  my 
wife  not  to  be  allowed  to  claim  the  relationship,"  he 
replied,  thoughtfully. 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Hunt 
ress;  "but  could  she  not  better  bear  the  disappoint 
ment  than  to  have  her  child  made  unhappy,  after  all 
these  years  of  content,  by  learning  that  those  who 
have  hitherto  occupied  the  place  of  father  and 
mother  are  nothing  to  her  by  the  ties  of  blood?  She 
has  not  a  suspicion  of  the  truth,  and  I  am  confident 
that  no  one,  save  Doctor  Turner  and  ourselves,  has 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  289 

the  slightest  knowledge  of  it,  so  that  it  never  need  be 
revealed.  Mrs.  Mapleson  promised  solemnly  never 
to  claim  her,  under  any  circumstances;  she  gave  her 
unreservedly  to  us,  and  I  cannot  feel  willing  to  have 
our  relations  disturbed.  As  far  as  any  property 
which  she  might  inherit  from  your  wife  is  concerned, 
I  would  not  give  it  a  moment's  consideration.  I 
have  an  abundance,  and  Gladys  will  have  it  all  by  and 
by.  I  did  intend  to  make  a  division  between  my 
two  children,"  turning  with  a  smile  to  the  young  man 
by  his  side,  "but  since  Geoffrey  is  now  so  rich,  he 
will  not  need  it.  However,  it  will  amount  to  about 
the  same  thing  in  the  end,  as  they  will  soon  have  all 
things  in  common,  I  trust." 

"Ah!  is  that  so?"  Colonel  Mapleson  inquired, 
with  a  brilliant  smile  and  a  nod  at  his  son. 

"I  hope  so,"  Geoffrey  answered;  "and  I,  too,  think 
it  would  be  wiser  to  keep  the  truth  regarding  Gladys' 
birth  still  a  secret.  Its  revelation  can  do  no  one,  save 
Mrs.  Mapleson,  the  least  possible  good,  and  I  doubt 
if  even  she  would  not  regret  a  disclosure  that  would 
result  in  so  much  unhappiness  to  others." 

"I  believe  you  are  right,"  Colonel  Mapleson  said, 
after  thinking  it  over  for  a  few  moments.  "I  reckon 
it  would  be  the  better  plan  to  allow  things  to  remain 
just  as  they  are." 

"I  beg  you  will  not  consider  me  selfish  or  unfeeling 
in  this  matter,"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  earnestly,  but 
greatly  relieved  by  this  decision.  "I  sympathize 


290  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

deeply  with  Mrs.  Mapleson,  but  I  feel  that  she  could 
not  suffer  a  tithe  of  what  my  wife  and  daughter 
would  endure  to  have  their  relations  disturbed,  not  to 
mention  my  own  feelings  in  the  matter." 

"I  understand,"  his  host  responded,  heartily,  "and 
I  know  it  is  but  right  and  just  that  the  one  should 
yield  in  order  that  the  many  may  be  happy,  and  I  be 
lieve  that  my  wife  will  see  it  in  the  same  light  when 
she  comes  to  consider  it.  But,"  turning  again  to 
Geoffrey,  "when  is  this  wedding  to  occur?" 

The  young  man  colored  and  glanced  at  Mr.  Hunt 
ress,  for  he  hardly  knew  what  to  say  in  reply  to 
this. 

"Well,  I — the  day  is  not  set  yet.  I  was  anxious 
to  have  my  relations  with  yourself  settled,  and — 
we " 

It  was  an  unusual  occurrence  for  Geoffrey  Hunt 
ress  to  lose  his  self-possession  under  any  circum 
stances;  but  just  then  he  felt  himself  to  be  in  a  very 
painful  position,  for  every  moment  he  shrank  more 
and  more  from  revealing  his  half-brother's  wretched 
plot,  and  he  was  greatly  relieved  by  a  little  stir  in  the 
hall  at  that  moment  which  attracted  Colonel  Maple- 
son's  attention  from  him. 

The  next  instant  the  library  door  was  flung  open, 
and  Everet,  himself,  pale  and  travel-stained,  stood 
before  the  astonished  group. 

"Ha !"  he  cried,  catching  sight  of  Geoffrey.  "So 
you  have  stolen  a  march  on  me !  trying,  I  suppose,  to 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  291 

browbeat  the  governor  into  confessing  that  romantic 
liaison  of  his  youth." 

"Everet/"  exclaimed  his  father,  turning  sternly 
upon  him,  an  angry  flush  mounting  to  his  brow,  at 
this  rude  intrusion;  "what  do  you  mean  by  rushing 
in  here  like  this,  addressing  my  guests  in  such  an  ab 
rupt  way,  not  to  mention  your  exceedingly  disre 
spectful  language  regarding  myself?" 

"Your  guests!  Why  don't  you  present  them  to  me, 
or  are  you  a  trifle  delicate  about  introducing  Annie 
Dale's  son  to  me?"  retorted  the  young  man,  in  a  ner 
vous,  unnatural  manner. 

"Silence,  sir!"  thundered  Colonel  Mapleson,  look 
ing  perfectly  aghast  at  this  strange  behavior  on  the 
part  of  his  usually  courteous  son.  "What  do  you 
know  of  Annie  Dale?"  he  continued;  "and  why  do 
you  speak  of  this  young  man  in  that  sneering  way?" 

"I  know  a  great  deal  about  Annie  Dale  and  the 
suspicious  life  she  led  in  a  certain  mining  district  for 
a  year,"  Everet  retorted,  with  reckless  scorn. 

He  had  been  wrought  to  the  highest  pitch  of  angry 
excitement  by  finding  Geoffrey  and  Mr.  Huntress 
there  before  him. 

"I  know,"  he  went  on,  "how  she  was  enticed  away 
by  the  promise  of  a  marriage  which  never  took  place, 
and  how  she  afterward  died — doubtless  of  a  broken 
heart — leaving  a  nameless  brat  to  inherit  her 
shame." 

"Everet!  you  have  suddenly  taken  leave  o/  your 


292  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

senses !  I  believe  you  are  in  the  delirium  of  fever," 
returned  his  father,  regarding  his  now  flushed  face 
and  glittering  eyes  with  alarm.  "But  have  a  care 
over  your  words.  How  on  earth  you  have  become 
possessed  of  such  strange  notions  is  more  than  I  can 
account  for." 

"I  can  easily  enlighten  you.  I  have  a  couple  of 
letters  in  my  possession  that  were  written  by  Annie 
Dale's  lover,  which  will  prove  all  that  I  have  hinted 
at;  and  I  found  a  very  pretty  ring,  too,  last  summer, 
during  my  travels — not  a  wedding-ring,  either,  mind 
you.  I  doubt  if  she  ever  had  that — which  was  lost 
on  the  very  spot  where  she  had  lived  and  died." 

He  drew  both  letters  and  ring  from  one  of  his 
pockets,  as  he  spoke,  and  flung  them  upon  the  tabb, 
before  his  father. 

Colonel  Mapleson  recognized  them  at  once,  while 
he  was  amazed  by  the  fact  of  their  being  in  the  pos 
session  of  his  son.  One  of  the  letters  he  remembered 
losing  after  a  visit  to  the  cottage  where  his  Annie  had 
once  lived,  and  he  had  been  greatly  disturbed  over 
the  fact;  but  the  other,  and  the  ring — which  his  dear 
wife  had  lost  one  night  while  sitting  on  the  porch  in 
their  mountain  home — he  could  not  understand  how 
he  came  by  them. 

"You  found  that  ring?"  he  asked,  amazed. 

"Yes.  I  visited  a  certain  cottage  among  the  moun 
tains  of  New  Mexico  last  summer,  and  while  stand- 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  293 

ing  upon  one  of  the  steps  leading  up  to  the  door  it 
gave  way,  and  underneath  I  found  this  ring." 

"Ah !  we  never  thought  of  looking  under  the 
step,"  said  the  colonel,  musingly.  "It  was  a  little 
loose  for  her  finger  just  then,  and,  slipping  off,  rolled 
away  out  of  sight,  and  we  thought  it  very  strange 
that  we  could  not  find  it.  Yes,"  he  continued,  taking 
it  up  and  regarding  it  tenderly,  "Annie  Dale  never 
had  her  engagement-ring  until  the  day  of  her  mar 
riage,  when  this  was  put  on  her  finger  as  a  guard  to 
her  wedding-ring!  Annie  Dale  was  my  loved  and 
honored  wife,  Everet,  and  Geoffrey,  my  son  and 
hers,"  indicating  the  young  man  by  a  motion  of  his 
hand,  "will  show  you  the  certificate  of  our  marriage, 
and  the  ring  with  which  she  was  wed !" 

"Your  wife!  Annie  Dale  your  wife!"  Everet  re 
peated,  starting  back,  amazed,  all  his  color  fading 
again  at  those  words,  and  shocked  into  more  respect 
ful  speech  by  the  unexpected  acknowledgment. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

PEACE  AT  LAST 

"YES,  Annie  Dale  was  my  wife!" 

Everet  bent  a  sullen  look  upon  Geoffrey. 

"Then  he  is  not  a " 

An  imperative  gesture  from  his  father  silenced  the 
obnoxious  word  that  trembled  on  his  lips. 

"Geoffrey  Huntress,  as  he  has  hitherto  been 
known,"  he  said,  "is  my  son,  honorably  entitled  to  my 
name,  and  an  equal  share  with  yourself  of  all  I  pos 
sess — a  son  whom  I  long  mourned  as  dead,  but  whom 
I  have  most  gladly  welcomed  to  my  heart  and  home 
this  night,  upon  learning  who  he  was." 

"Would  you  have  done  so  had  you  not  been  forced 
to  it?"  Everet  rudely  demanded. 

"Everet,  you  are  very  disrespectful  to-night,"  re 
turned  his  father,  with  a  frown.  "I  cannot  under 
stand  why  you  should  manifest  such  a  spirit  of  hos 
tility.  But  we  will  not  talk  more  of  this  now;  you 
shall  have  the  details  of  the  story  of  my  early  life 
later.  I  trust,  however,  that  your  sense  of  what  is 
right  and  just  will  prompt  you  to  some  acknowledg 
ment  for  your  discourtesy  toward  your  brother." 

294 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  295 

"My  brother!"  retorted  Everet,  aroused  afresh  at 
the  word;  "he  has  been  nothing  but  a  stumbling- 
block  in  my  path  ever  since  I  first  saw  him;  he  hu 
miliated  me  before  friends  in  a  way  that  I  have  never 
forgiven;  he  thwarted  me  in  my  hopes  at  college  and 
in  many  plans — all  but  the  last  one,"  he  concluded, 
with  a  taunting  laugh,  turning  defiantly  toward  Geof 
frey,  who  was  regarding  him  with  more  of  sorrow 
than  of  anger. 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  son?"  demanded  his 
father,  who  saw  that  something  was  very  wrong  be 
tween  them,  and  was  almost  in  despair  over  his  inex 
plicable  conduct. 

"Has  he  not  told  you  how  I  cheated  him  out  of  his 
wife?"  Everet  asked,  supposing,  of  course,  that  that 
wretched  story  had  been  rehearsed. 

"Cheated  him  out  of  his  wife!"  repeated  Colonel 
Mapleson,  growing  pale,  and  glancing  apprehen 
sively  from  one  to  the  other. 

His  son  gave  vent  to  a  short,  nervous  laugh,  but 
feeling  considerably  crestfallen  at  having  so  reck 
lessly  betrayed  himself,  since  he  saw  that  nothing 
had  been  said  about  his  miserable  plot. 

Mr.  Huntress  here  interposed,  seeing  that  the 
truth  must  come  out,  and  explained  in  a  few  brief 
sentences  what  had  happened. 

Colonel  Mapleson  sank  back  white  and  nervous, 
as  he  listened,  realizing,  almost  at  the  outset,  the  ter 
rible  thing  which  his  son  had  so  nearly  accomplished 


296  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

"Do  you  know  what  you  have  done,  Everet  Ma- 
pleson?"  he  said,  in  a  solemn,  impressive  tone,  when 
his  visitor  concluded,  and  the  young  man  was  startled 
and  awed  in  spite  of  his  bravado.  "You  have  been 
upon  the  brink  of  a  fearful  precipice;  you  have  very 
nearly  committed  a  dreadful  crime,  for  which  I  could 
never  have  forgiven  you,  for  which  you  would  never 
have  forgiven  yourself;  the  girl  whom  you  have 
sought  to  make  your  wife  is  your  sister." 

The  young  man  grew  pale,  but  more  at  his  father's 
tone  than  from  any  conviction  of  the  truth  of  his 
statement.  But  he  rallied  after  a  moment. 

"What  stuff  are  you  telling  me?"  he  retorted,  con 
temptuously. 

"It  is  no  'stuff;'  it  is  sternest  truth;  Gladys  Hunt 
ress  is  an  adopted  daughter." 

"Ha!"  and  now  Everet  Mapleson  seemed  sud 
denly  galvanized.  "Did  Annie  Dale  have  another 
child?"  he  demanded,  with  hueless  lips. 

"No;  but  she  is  your  mother's  child,  by  a  former 
marriage." 

"Great  heaven!" 

There  was  no  defiance  or  recklessness  in  his  man 
ner  now.  He  sank  breathless  upon  a  chair,  a  horri 
fied  look  upon  his  face,  a  shiver  shaking  him  from 
head  to  foot,  perspiration  starting  from  every  pore. 

"My  mother's  child!  Impossible!  Who  told 
you?"  he  questioned,  hoarsely. 

"Your   mother   herself!     She   was   unexpectedly 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  297 

brought  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Huntress  to-night;  she 
recognized  him  and  fainted.  Upon  recovering  she 
confessed  to  a  former  marriage,  and  said,  in  order  to 
conceal  the  fact,  she  had  been  obliged  to  give  away 
her  child — that  Mr.  Huntress  was  the  man  who 
adopted  her." 

Colonel  Mapleson  then  went  on  to  explain  more 
at  length  something  of  the  occurrences  of  the  eve 
ning,  but  he  was  interrupted  in  the  midst  of  his  re 
cital  by  Everet  throwing  himself  prostrate  upon  the 
floor,  while  a  heart-rending  groan  burst  from  him  as 
he  fell. 

When  they  raised  him  he  was  unconscious,  and  a 
small  stream  of  blood  was  trickling  from  his  mouth. 

He  was  carried  at  once  to  his  room,  a  servant  was 
immediately  dispatched  for  a  doctor,  while  his  anx 
ious  friends  used  what  remedies  there  were  at  hand 
for  his  relief. 

When  the  physician  arrived  he  said  his  patient  had 
evidently  been  suffering  from  a  severe  cold  for  sev 
eral  days,  and  that  this,  with  weariness  of  body  and 
a  sudden  shock  of  some  kind,  had  brought  on  a  hem 
orrhage,  while  there  were  also  some  indications  of 
a  brain  trouble,  and  a  severe  illness  would  doubtless 
follow. 

Mr.  Huntress  and  Geoffrey  proposed  going  away 
early  the  next  morning,  but  Colonel  Mapleson,  who 
seemed  greatly  unnerved  by  the  excitement  of  the 
previous  evening,  begged  them  to  remain  for  a  few 


;>98  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

days  at  least,  as  he  could  not  bear  to  give  up  Geof 
frey  again  so  soon  after  being  reunited  to  him. 

They  had  not  the  heart  to  leave  him  in  his  trouble 
after  that,  and  consented  to  remain  long  enough  to 
learn  what  the  prospect  of  Everet's  recovery  would 
be. 

But  he  grew  steadily  worse,  and  raved  in  the 
wildest  delirium,  recognizing  no  one,  although  there 
was  no  return  of  the  hemorrhage.  At  the  end  of 
four  days  Mr.  Huntress  decided  that  he  must  go 
home,  but  Geoffrey  concluded  that  it  was  his  duty 
to  remain  with  his  father  until  the  crisis  in  Everet's 
illness  should  be  passed,  for  Colonel  Mapleson 
seemed  to  lean  upon  and  to  experience  much  comfort 
from  his  presence. 

He  proved  of  the  greatest  assistance  in  the  sick 
room,  where  he  attended  Everet  most  faithfully,  and 
endeared  himself  to  the  whole  household  by  his  gen 
tleness  and  courteous  bearing. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  the  fever  turned,  and 
Everet  was  pronounced  out  of  danger  of  any  fur 
ther  brain  trouble,  although  it  would  be  a  long  time 
before  he  would  fully  recover  from  the  weakness  of 
his  lungs. 

Geoffrey  withdrew  himself  immediately  from  the 
sick-room  as  soon  as  the  patient  recovered  conscious 
ness,  realizing  that  his  presence  might  be  annoying 
to  Everet,  and  retard  his  convalescence ;  although  he 
remained  at  Vue  de  1'Eau  for  another  week,  at  the 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  299 

earnest  request  of  both  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Maple- 
son. 

Then  he  felt  that  he  could  not  stay  longer  away 
from  Gladys,  and  he  returned  to  Brooklyn,  taking 
with  him  the  knowledge  of  his  father's  firm  and  last 
ing  affection,  and  Mrs.  Mapleson's  respect  and 
friendship,  together  with  the  handsome  fortune 
which  he  had  inherited  from  Robert  Dale,  and  which 
Colonel  Mapleson  had  transferred  to  him. 

It  had  been  agreed  by  all  parties  that  Gladys 
should  never  be  told  the  secret  of  her  parentage, 
although  Mrs.  Mapleson  had  wept  bitterly  when  she 
consented  to  remain  all  her  life  unrecognized  by  the 
child  for  whom  her  heart  yearned  inexpressibly. 

She  could  but  acknowledge,  however,  that  it  would 
be  for  her  daughter's  happiness,  and  she  was  willing 
to  sacrifice  her  own  feelings  to  secure  that. 

She  had  been  greatly  shocked  upon  learning  of 
Everet's  wretched  plot,  and  the  narrow  escape  he  had 
had  from  committing  a  fearful  crime,  and  she  had 
pleaded  with  Geoffrey,  when  parting  with  him,  to 
forgive  her  son  for  the  injury  he  had  done  him,  say 
ing  she  felt  sure  that  he  would  deeply  regret  it,  when 
he  fully  came  to  himself. 

Geoffrey  assured  her  of  his  full  and  free  pardon, 
and  actually  expressed  the  hope  that  he  and  his  half- 
brother  might  some  time  come  to  regard  each  other, 
at  least  with  a  friendly,  if  not  with  brotherly,  affec 
tion. 


300  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

His  return  was  a  very  joyous  one. 

Gladys  had  been  assured  by  her  father,  long  be 
fore  this,  that  she  was  free;  that  no  tie  bound  her  to 
Everet  Mapleson;  that  the  events  which  had  oc 
curred  upon  the  night  set  for  the  wedding  had  been 
simply  a  farce,  the  result  of  fraud  of  the  worst  type, 
which  rendered  the  ceremony  illegal. 

She  was  almost  like  her  old,  bright  self  when 
Geoffrey  arrived,  although  not  quite  so  strong  as 
formerly,  for  she  had  suffered  a  fearful  shock,  and 
it  was  not  surprising  that  its  effects  should  yet  be 
visible. 

Only  a  few  days  after  Geoffrey's  return,  Mr. 
Huntress'  beloved  pastor  and  his  wife  were  invited 
to  dine  with  the  family,  and  later  in  the  evening, 
when  the  servants  were  all  below — everything  hav 
ing  been  confidentially  explained  to  the  reverend 
gentleman  previous  to  his  visit — Geoffrey  and  Gladys 
stood  up  in  the  drawing-room  and  were  quietly  made 
one,  while  only  those  who  were  acquainted  with  the 
private  history  of  the  young  couple  ever  knew  of  this 
second  ceremony,  their  fashionable  friends  and  the 
world  all  believing  that  the  real  marriage  had  oc 
curred  at  the  time  of  the  brilliant  wedding  before  de 
scribed. 

No  one  was  surprised  that  the  European  trip  was 
postponed  until  warmer  weather.  "A  sea  voyage  in 
the  dead  of  winter  was  a  thing  to  be  dreaded;  be 
sides,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress  had  finally  decided  to 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  301 

brace  up  their  courage  and  go  with  them,  if  they 
would  wait  until  spring." 

They  sailed  about  the  middle  of  May,  and  had  an 
unusually  smooth  passage.  They  spent  a  whole  year 
abroad — a  year  of  delight,  and  such  as  few  experi 
ence  in  this  world,  and  then  returned  to  Brooklyn, 
where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Dale  Mapleson  set  up 
their  own  establishment  on  Clinton  avenue,  not  a 
stone's  throw  from  their  former  home. 

The  change  in  Geoffrey's  name,  together  with  the 
discovery  of  his  parentage,  had  been  very  easily  ex 
plained,  and  then,  of  course,  everybody  said  "they 
always  knew  that  he  and  Everet  Mapleson  must  have 
the  same  blood  in  their  veins;  but  it  was  really  a 
very  romantic  circumstance — Geoffrey  having  been 
injured  and  carried  off  by  his  nurse's  husband  in  a 
fit  of  drunkenness,  and  never  discovering  his  parent 
age  until  now." 

The  next  fall,  after  the  young  couple's  return  from 
Europe,  Colonel  Mapleson  and  his  wife  paid  them  a 
visit,  and  it  was  noticeable  that  a  great  change  had 
come  over  the  strangely-wedded  pair. 

The  stately  and  soldierly  colonel  was  devotedly  at 
tached  to  his  beautiful  wife,  who  had  acquired  a  pe 
culiar  gentleness  and  sweetness,  in  place  of  her  for 
mer  imperious  manner,  which  made  her  tenfold  more 
attractive.  It  was  evident,  too,  that  she  was  strongly 
attached  to  her  noble  husband. 


302  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

When  she  was  presented  to  Gladys,  she  folded 
her  closely  in  her  arms. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  with  a  thrill  of  tenderness  in 
her  tones  that  moved  the  young  wife  strangely,  "I 
hope  we  shall  be  very  good  friends,  for,  although 
Geoffrey  is  not  my  own  son,  /  want  to  regard  you 
both  as  my  children!" 

Tears  sprang  into  Gladys'  eyes. 

She  lifted  her  face  and  kissed  the  lovely  one  bend 
ing  above  her. 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  love  you  very,  very  dearly,"  she 
said. 

And  she  did.  A  tender  friendship  was  begun  dur 
ing  that  visit,  which  grew  stronger  and  more  devoted 
with  every  year,  and  when,  at  length,  two  little  twin 
girls  were  born  to  Gladys,  she  named  one  Alice  and 
the  other  Estelle. 

"For  our  two  mothers,"  she  said  to  Geoffrey,  with 
a  fond  smile. 

Colonel  Mapleson  was  very  proud  of  his  Annie's 
boy,  but  his  happiness  would  never  be  quite  complete, 
he  said,  until  there  could  be  perfect  harmony  between 
his  two  sons.  He  hoped  that  time  would  bring  even 
that  to  pass,  for  Everet  had  shown  great  remorse 
over  the  deception  that  he  had  practiced  upon 
Gladys,  and  he  finally  made  an  humble,  though 
manly,  confession  to  her,  and  entreated  her  pardon 
for  the  injury  he  had  done  her  and  her  husband. 

But  it  was  not  until  Geoffrey  was  called  to  the 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  303 

death-bed  of  his  father,  three  years  after  his  mar 
riage,  that  they  really  became  friends. 

The  making  of  Colonel  Mapleson's  will  brought 
it  about,  for  he  consulted  his  sons  about  the  matter. 
Geoffrey  refused  absolutely  to  be  named  in  it,  ex 
cept  simply  to  receive  an  affectionate  remembrance 
from  his  father,  and  this  attitude  excited  Everet's 
wonder. 

"Why  do  you  do  this?"  he  asked,  coldly,  and  re 
garding  his  brother  with  suspicion.  "You  are  my 
father's  elder  son,  and  entitled  to  half  his  fortune." 

"I  do  not  wish  it,  believe  me,"  Geoffrey  answered. 
"I  have  enough  as  it  is.  I  can  never  tell  you,"  he 
added,  earnestly,  "how  much  more  to  me  than  for 
tune,  or  any  other  inheritance,  is  the  name  that  I  can 
legally  claim  from  our  father.  Let  that  be  my  share 
— indeed,  I  will  not  have  anything  else." 

Everet  stood,  thoughtful  and  silent,  for  several 
moments.  Then,  with  an  evident  effort,  he  looked  up 
in  Geoffrey's  face,  and  said: 

"I  know  that  you  might  have  all,  had  you  chosen 
to  take  it,  and  in  that  case  7  would  have  been  a  beg 
gar.  You  have  led  me  to  believe — and  not  by  this 
act  alone,  either — that  there  is  at  least  one  truly 
noble,  unselfish  man  in  the  world.  If  you  do  not 
utterly  despise  me,  will  you  henceforth  recognize  me 
as  a  friend?" 

He  extended  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  but  it  shook 
visibly,  and  he  was  very  pale.  It  had  not  been  an 


304  FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR 

easy  thing  for  this  proud  young  Southerner  to  make 
such  a  confession  and  appeal. 

Geoffrey  grasped  it  warmly,  his  manly  face  all 
aglow  with  sincere  joy. 

"Not  only  my  'friend,'  Everet,  but  my  brother,  in 
name  and  in  truth,"  he  answered,  heartily;  and  thus 
a  lifelong  bond  was  established  between  them, 
which  strengthened  with  every  succeeding  year,  while 
the  desire  of  Colonel  Mapleson's  heart  was  granted 
him  ere  he  closed  his  eyes  upon  all  things  earthly. 

A  little  later,  Addie  Loring,  who  during  all  this 
time  had  refused  many  an  eager  suitor,  became  the 
mistress  of  Vue  de  1'Eau,  where  she  reigned  the  cen 
ter  of  a  happy  and  peaceful  household. 

She  often  visited  her  girlhood's  friend  at  the 
North,  and  entertained  her,  in  turn,  in  her  Southern 
home,  where  the  elder  Mrs.  Mapleson  was  su 
premely  content  in  the  presence  of  her  child  and 
grandchildren,  even  though  they  were  ignorant  that 
no  other  bond  save  that  of  mutual  love  and  sympathy 
united  them. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress  were  also  very  happy  in 
their  children,  and  lived  many  years  to  enjoy  them — 
years  which  brought  with  them  an 

"Old  age  serene  and  bright, 
And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night.'' 

Mr.  Huntress  retired  from  active  business  soon 


FOR  LOVE  AND  HONOR  305 

after  his  return  from  Europe,  resigning  his  place  in 
the  firm  to  Geoffrey,  who  developed  great  ability  as 
a  business  man,  and  was  as  energetic  and  industrious 
as  if  he  had  his  fortune  still  to  make,  instead  of 
already  being  the  possessor  of  a  handsome  compe 
tence. 

Gladys,  true  to  her  vow  upon  that  wedding-day, 
which  had  ended  so  sadly,  and  yet  which,  they  all 
felt,  had  been  wisely  overruled,  divided  her  time  be 
tween  the  duties  in  her  own  home  and  the  work  of 
lightening  the  burdens  of  others,  "reflecting  some  of 
the  happiness  of  her  own  life  upon  those  less  fa 
vored;"  thus  laying  up  treasures  for  herself  more 
precious  and  lasting  than  either  silver  or  gold. 

"Who  soweth  good  seed  shall  surely  reap; 
The  year  groweth  rich  as  it  groweth  old, 
And  life's  latest  sands  are  its  sands  of  gold." 


THE    END 


DATE  DUE 


nuBtuft 

UR110A 

IS 

OCT  C 

7  1987 

3  1970  00341  9329 


